LIBRARY 

^University  of  CaWo,nja 

IRVINE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 
Chester  C.    Davis 


THE    FORTUNES    OF 
OLIVER    HORN 


Sue  saw  the  change  in  his  manner. 


THE 

FORTUNES  OF 
OLIVER  HORN 


^  BY 

F/HOPKINSON   SMITH 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
WALTER   APPLETON   CLARK 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK:::::::::::::::::::::1912 


COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY 
QEARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


"THE  MAN  OF  ALL  OTHERS  ABOUT  KENNEDY 
SQUARE  MOST  BELOVED,  AND  THE  MAN  OF  ALL 
OTHERS  LEAST  UNDERSTOOD  —  RICHARD  HORN, 
THE  DISTINGUISHED  INVENTOR." 

F.   H.   8. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

/.     The    Old   House   in   Kennedy 

Square  1 

II.     Strains  from  Nathan's  Flute     .     25 

III.  The  Open-Air  Drawing-Rooms 

of  Kennedy  Square       .     .     .54 

IV.  An  Old-Fashioned  Mortgage    .     69 
V.     A  Message  of  Importance     .     .     88 

VI.  Amos  Cobb's  Advice   .     .     .     .112 

VII.  A  Seat  in  Union  Square      .     .131 

VIII.  An  Old  Song 152 

IX.  Miss  Teetum's  Long  Table  .     .182 

X.  McFudd's  Brass  Band    ...  194 

XI.  A  Change  of  Wind     ....  214 

XII.  Around  the  Milo 234 

XIII.  Below  Moose  Hillock       .     .     .259 

XIV.  Under  a  Bark  Slant    ....  282 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

XV.     Mrs.  Tajt's  Front  Porch      .     .  300 
XVI.     Some  Days  at  Brookfield  Farm  310 

XVII.     Live  Coals  from  Miss  Clenden- 

ning's  Wood-Fire    .     .     .     .341 

XVIII.     The  Last  Hours  of  a  Civiliza 
tion  375 

XIX.  The  Settling  of  the  Shadow  .     .413 

XX.  The  Stone  Mugs 414 

XXI.  "The  Woman  in  Black"      .     .  441 

XXII.  "Margaret  Grant— Top  Floor"  454 

XXIII.  Mr.  Munson's  Lost  Foil      .     .  487 

XXIV.  In  the  Twilight 517 

XXV.  Smouldering  Coals      ....  533 

XXVI.  The  Light  of  a  New  Day    .     .551 


VIll 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

*  Sue  saw  the  change  in  his  manner      ....    Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


"Gentlemen,  this  is  outrageous!" 208 

The  Colonel  turned  upon  him  with  a  snarl 386 

For  two  hours  Oliver  stood  before  his  canvas     .     .     .     .446 


THE    FORTUNES    OF 
OLIVER    HORN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    OLD    HOUSE    IN    KENNEDY    SQUARE 

Kennedy  Square,  in  the  late  fifties,  was  a  place  of 
birds  and  trees  and  flowers;  of  rude  stone  benches, 
sagging  arbors  smothered  in  vines,  and  cool  dirt-paths 
bordered  by  sweet-smelling  box.  Giant  magnolias 
filled  the  air  with  their  fragrance,  and  climbing  roses 
played  hide  and  seek  among  the  railings  of  the  rotting 
fence.  Along  the  shaded  walks  laughing  boys  and 
girls  romped  all  day,  with  hoop  and  ball,  attended 
by  old  black  mammies  in  white  aprons  and  gayly  col 
ored  bandannas;  while  in  the  more  secluded  corners, 
sheltered  by  protecting  shrubs,  happy  lovers  sat  and 
talked,  tired  wayfarers  rested  with  hats  off,  and  staid 
old  gentlemen  read  by  the  hour,  their  noses  in  their 
books. 

Outside  of  all  this  color,  perfume,  and  old-time 
charm,  outside  the  grass-line  and  the  rickety  wooden 

1 


fence  that  framed  them  in,  ran  an  uneven  pavement 
splashed  with  cool  shadows  and  stained  with  green 
mould.  Here,  in  summer,  the  watermelon-man 
stopped  his  cart ;  and  here,  in  winter,  upon  its  broken 
bricks,  old  Moses  unhooked  his  bucket  of  oysters  and 
ceased  for  a  moment  his  droning  call. 

On  the  shady  side  of  the  square,  and  half-hidden 
in  ivy,  was  a  Noah's  Ark  church,  topped  by  a  quaint 
belfry  holding  a  bell  that  had  not  rung  for  years,  and 
faced  by  a  clock-dial  all  weather-stains  and  cracks, 
around  which  travelled  a  single  rusty  hand.  In  its 
shadow  to  the  right  lay  the  home  of  the  Archdeacon, 
a  stately  mansion  with  Corinthian  columns  reaching 
to  the  roof  and  surrounded  by  a  spacious  garden 
filled  with  damask  roses  and  bushes  of  sweet  syringa. 
To  the  left  crouched  a  row  of  dingy  houses  built  of 
brick,  their  iron  balconies  hung  in  flowering  vines, 
the  windows  glistening  with  panes  of  wavy  glass  pur 
pled  by  age. 

On  the  sunny  side  of  the  square,  opposite  the 
church,  were  more  houses,  high  and  low;  one  all  gar 
den,  filled  with  broken-nosed  statues  hiding  behind 
still  more  magnolias,  and  another  all  veranda  and 
honeysuckle,  big  rocking-chairs  and  swinging  ham 
mocks;  and  still  others  with  porticos  curtained  by 
white  jasmine  or  Virginia  creeper. 

Half-way  down  this  stretch  of  sunshine — and  what 
a  lovely  stretch  it  was — there  had  stood  for  years 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  KENNEDY  SQUAKE 

a  venerable  mansion  with  high  chimneys,  sloping  roof, 
and  quaint  dormer-windows,  shaded  by  a  tall  syca 
more  that  spread  its  branches  far  across  the  street. 
Two  white  marble  steps  guarded  by  old-fashioned  iron 
railings  led  up  to  the  front  door,  which  bore  on  its 
face  a  silver-plated  knocker,  inscribed  in  letters  of 
black  with  the  name  of  its  owner — "  Richard  Horn." 
All  three,  the  door,  the  white  marble  steps,  and  the 
silver-plated  knocker — not  to  forget  the  round  silver 
knobs  ornamenting  the  newel  posts  of  the  railings — 
w,ere  kept  as  bright  as  the  rest  of  the  family  plate  by 
that  most  loyal  of  servants,  old  Malachi,  who  daily 
soused  the  steps  with  soap  and  water,  and  then  brought 
to  a  phenomenal  polish  the  knocker,  bell-pull,  and 
knobs  by  means  of  fuller's-earth,  turpentine,  hard 
breathing,  and  the  vigorous  use  of  a  buckskin  rag. 

If  this  weazened-faced,  bald-headed  old  darky,  re 
splendent  in  white  shirt-sleeves,  green  baize  apron,  and 
never-ceasing  smile  of  welcome,  happened  to  be  en 
gaged  in  this  cleansing  and  polishing  process — and  it 
occurred  every  morning — and  saw  any  friend  of  his 
master  approaching,  he  would  begin  removing  his  pail 
and  brushes  and  throwing  wide  the  white  door  before 
the  visitor  reached  the  house,  would  there  await  his 
coming,  bent  double  in  profound  salutation.  Indeed, 
whenever  Malachi  had  charge  of  the  front  steps  he 
seldom  stood  upright,  so  constantly  was  he  occupied — 
by  reason  of  his  master's  large  acquaintance — in  either 

3 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

crooking  his  back  in  the  beginning  of  a  bow.   or 
straightening  it  up  in  the  ending  of  one. 

To  one  and  all  inquiries  for  Mr.  Horn  his  answer 
during  the  morning  hours  was  invariably  the  same : 

"  Yes,  sah,  Marse  Richard's  in  his  li'l  room  wrastlin' 
wid  his  machine,  I  reckon.  He's  in  dar  now,  sah — 
this  with  another  low  bow,  and  then  slowly  recover 
ing  his  perpendicular  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  retreat 
ing  figure,  so  as  to  be  sure  there  was  no  further  need 
of  his  services,  he  would  resume  his  work,  drenching 
the  steps  again  with  soap-suds  or  rubbing  away  on  the 
door-plate  or  door-pull,  stopping  every  other  moment 
to  blow  liis  breath  on  the  polished  surface. 

When,  however,  someone  asked  for  young  Oliver, 
the  inventor's  only  son,  the  reply  was  by  no  means 
so  definite,  although  the  smile  was  a  trifle  broader  and 
the  bow,  if  anything,  a  little  more  profound. 

"  Marse  Oliver,  did  you  say,  sah  ?  Dat's  a  difficult 
question,  sah.  Fo'  Gawd  I  ain't  seen  him  since  break- 
fas'.  You  might  look  into  Jedge  Ellicott's  office  if 
you  is  gwine  downtown,  whar  dey  do  say  he's  studyin' 
law,  an'  if  he  ain't  dar — an'  I  reckon  he  ain't — den 
you  might  drap  in  on  Mister  Crocker,  whar  Marse 
Oliver's  paintin'  dem  pictures;  an'  if  he  ain't  dar, 
den  fo-sho  he's  wid  some  o'  de  young  ladies,  but  which 
one  de  Lawd  only  knows.  Marse  Oliver's  like  the 
rabbit,  sah — he  don't  leab  no  tracks,"  and  Malachi 
would  hold  his  sides  in  a  chuckle  of  so  suffocating  a 

4 


THE  OLD   HOUSE  IN  KEI^EDY   SQUARE 

nature  that  it  would  have  developed  into  apoplexy  in 
a  less  wrinkled  and  emaciated  person. 

Inside  of  the  front  door  of  this  venerable  mansion 
ran  a  wide  hall  bare  of  everything  but  a  solid  mahog 
any  hat-rack  and  table  with  glass  mirror  and  heavy 
haircloth  settee,  over  which,  suspended  from  the  ceil 
ing,  hung  a  curious  eight-sided  lantern,  its  wick  re 
placed  with  a  modern  gas-burner.  Above  were  the 
bedrooms,  reached  by  a  curved  staircase  guarded  by 
spindling  mahogany  bannisters  with  slender  hand-rail 
— a  staircase  so  pure  in  style  and  of  so  distinguished 
an  air  that  only  maidens  in  gowns  and  slippers  should 
have  tripped  down  its  steps,  and  only  cavaliers  in  silk 
stockings  and  perukes  have  waited  below  for  their 
hands. 

Level  with  the  bare  hall,  opened  two  highly  pol 
ished  mahogany  doors,  which  led  respectively  into  the 
drawing-room  and  library,  their  windows  draped  in 
red  damask  and  their  walls  covered  with  family  por 
traits.  All  about  these  rooms  stood  sofas  studded  with 
brass  nails,  big  easy-chairs  upholstered  in  damask,  and 
small  tables  piled  high  with  magazines  and  papers. 
Here  and  there,  between  the  windows,  towered  a  book 
case  crammed  with  well-bound  volumes  reaching  clear 
to  the  ceiling.  In  the  centre  of  each  room  was  a  broad 
mantel  sheltering  an  open  fireplace,  and  on  cold  daye 
— and  there  were  some  pretty  cold  days  about  Ken 
nedy  Square — two  roaring  wood-fires  dispensed  com- 

5 


THE  FOETUSES  OF  OLIVEK  HOKN 

fort,  the  welcoming  blaze  of  each  reflected  in  the  shin* 
ing  brass  fire-irons  and  fenders. 

Adjoining  the  library  was  the  dining-room,  with  its 
well-rubbed  mahogany  table,  straight-backed  chairs, 
and  old  sideboard  laden  with  family  silver,  besides  a 
much-coveted  mahogany  cellaret  containing  some  of 
that  very  rare  Madeira  for  which  the  host  was  famous. 
Here  were  more  easy-chairs  and  more  portraits — one 
of  Major  Horn,  who  fell  at  Yorktown,  in  cocked  hat 
and  epaulets,  and  two  others  in  mob-caps  and  ruffles 
— both  ancient  grandmothers  of  long  ago. 

The  "  li'l  room  ob  Marse  Richard,"  to  which  in  the 
morning  Malachi  directed  all  his  master's  visitors,  was 
in  an  old-fashioned  one-story  out-house,  with  a  slop 
ing  roof,  that  nestled  under  the  shade  of  a  big  tulip- 
tree  in  the  back  yard — a  cool,  damp,  brick-paved  old 
yard,  shut  in  between  high  walls  mantled  with  ivy 
and  Virginia  creeper  and  capped  by  rows  of  broken 
bottles  sunk  in  mortar.  This  out-building  had  once 
served  as  servants'  quarters,  and  it  still  had  the  open 
fireplace  and  broad  hearth  before  which  many  a  black 
mammy  had  toasted  the  toes  of  her  pickaninnies,  as 
well  as  the  trap-door  in  the  ceiling  leading  to  the  loft 
where  they  had  slept.  Two  windows  which  peered  out 
from  under  bushy  eyebrows  of  tangled  honeysuckle 
gave  the  only  light;  a  green-painted  wooden  door, 
which  swung  level  with  the  moist  bricks,  the  only  en 
trance. 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IK  KENNEDY  SQUARE 

It  was  at  this  green-painted  wooden  door  that  you 
would  have  had  to  knock  to  find  the  man  of  all  others 
about  Kennedy  Square  most  beloved,  and  the  man 
of  all  others  least  understood — Richard  Horn,  the  dis 
tinguished  inventor. 

Perhaps  at  the  first  rap  he  would  have  been  too 
absorbed  to  hear  you.  He  would  have  been  bending 
over  his  carpenter-bench — his  deep,  thoughtful  eyes 
fixed  on  a  drawing  spread  out  before  him,  the  shav 
ings  pushed  back  to  give  him  room,  a  pair  of  com 
passes  held  between  his  fingers.  Or  he  might  have 
been  raking  the  coals  of  his  forge — set  up  in  the  same 
fireplace  that  had  warmed  the  toes  of  the  pickanin 
nies,  his  long  red  calico  working-gown,  which  clung 
about  his  spare  body,  tucked  between  his  knees  to 
keep  it  from  the  blaze.  Or  he  might  have  been  stir 
ring  a  pot  of  glue — a  wooden  model  in  his  hand — 
or  hammering  away  on  some  bit  of  hot  iron,  the 
brown  paper  cap  that  hid  his  sparse  gray  locks  pushed 
down  over  his  broad  forehead  to  protect  it  from  the 
heat. 

When,  however,  his  ear  had  caught  the  tap  of  your 
knuckles  and  he  had  throw7n  wide  the  green  door,  what 
a  welcome  would  have  awaited  you !  How  warm  the 
grasp  of  his  fine  old  hand ;  how  cordial  his  greeting. 

"  Disturb  me,  my  dear  sir,"  he  would  have  said 
in  answer  to  your  apologies,  "  that's  what  I  was  put 
in  the  world  for.  I  love  to  be  disturbed.  Please  do 

7 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

it  every  day.  Come  in !  Come  in !  It's  delightful  to 
get  hold  of  your  hand." 

If  you  were  his  friend,  and  most  men  who  knew 
him  were,  he  would  have  slipped  his  arm  through 
your  own,  and  after  a  brief  moment  you  would  have 
found  yourself  poring  over  a  detailed  plan,  his  arm 
still  in  yours,  while  he  showed  you  the  outline  of  some 
pin,  or  lever,  needed  to  perfect  the  most  marvellous 
of  all  discoveries  of  modern  times — his  new  galvanic 
motor. 

If  it  were  your  first  visit,  and  he  had  touched  in 
you  some  sympathetic  chord,  he  would  have  uncov 
ered  a  nondescript  combination  of  glass  jars,  horse 
shoe  magnets,  and  copper  wires  which  lay  in  a  curious 
shaped  box  beneath  one  of  the  windows,  and  in  a  voice 
trembling  with  emotion  as  he  spoke,  he  would  have 
explained  to  you  the  value  of  this  or  that  lever,  and 
its  necessary  relation  to  this  new  invention  of  his 
which  was  so  soon  to  revolutionize  the  motive  power 
of  the  world.  Or  he  would  perhaps  have  talked  to 
you  as  he  did  to  me,  of  his  theories  and  beliefs 
and  of  what  he  felt  sure  the  future  would  bring 
forth. 

"  The  days  of  steam-power  are  already  numbered. 
I  may  not  live  to  see  it,  but  you  will.  This  new  force 
is  almost  within  my  grasp.  I  know  people  laugh,  but 
so  they  have  always  done.  All  inventors  who  have 
benefited  mankind  have  first  been  received  with  ridi- 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  KENNEDY  SQUARE 

cule.  I  can  expect  no  better  treatment.  But  I  have 
no  fear  of  the  result.  The  steady  destruction  of  our 
forests  and  the  eating  up  of  our  coal-fields  must  throw 
us  back  on  chemistry  for  our  working  power.  There 
is  only  one  solution  of  this  problem — it  lies  in  the 
employment  of  a  force  which  this  machine  will  com 
pel  to  our  uses.  I  have  not  perfected  the  apparatus 
yet,  as  you  see,  but  it  is  only  a  question  of  time.  To 
morrow,  perhaps,  or  next  week,  or  next  year — but  it 
will  surely  come.  See  what  Charles  Bright  and  this 
Mr.  Cyrus  Field  are  accomplishing.  If  it  astonishes 
you  to  realize  that  we  will  soon  talk  to  each  other 
across  the  ocean,  why  should  the  supplanting  of  steam 
by  a  new  energy  seem  so  extraordinary?  The  prob 
lems  which  they  have  worked  out  along  the  lines  of 
electricity,  I  am  trying  to  work  out  along  the  lines 
of  galvanism.  Both  will  ultimately  benefit  the 
human  race." 

And  while  he  talked  you  would  have  listened  with 
your  eyes  and  ears  wide  open,  and  your  heart  too,  and 
believed  every  word  he  said,  no  matter  how  practical 
you  might  have  been  or  how  unwilling  at  first  to  be 
convinced. 

On  another  day  perhaps  you  might  have  chanced 
to  knock  at  his  door  when  some  serious  complication 
had  vexed  him — a  day  when  the  cogs  and  pulleys 
upon  which  he  had  depended  for  certain  demonstra 
tion  had  become  so  tangled  up  in  his  busy  brain  that 

9 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

lie  had  thoughts  for  nothing  else.  Then,  had  he 
pushed  back  his  green  door  to  receive  you,  his  greet 
ing  might  have  been  as  cordial  and  his  welcome  as 
hearty,  but  before  long  you  would  have  found  his 
eyes  gazing  into  vacancy,  or  he  would  have  stopped 
half-way  in  an  answer  to  your  question,  his  thoughts 
far  away.  Had  you  loved  him  you  would  then  have 
closed  the  green  door  behind  you  and  left  him  alone. 
Had  you  remained  you  would,  perhaps,  have  seen  him 
spring  from  his  seat  and  pick  up  from  his  work-bench 
some  unfinished  fragment.  This  he  would  have 
plunged  into  the  smouldering  embers  of  his  forge  and, 
entirely  forgetful  of  your  presence,  would  have  seized 
the  handle  of  the  bellows,  his  eyes  intent  on  the 
blaze,  his  lips  muttering  broken  sentences.  At  these 
moments,  as  he  would  peer  into  the  curling  smoke, 
one  thin  hand  upraised,  the  long  calico  gown  wrink 
ling  about  his  spare  body,  the  paper  cap  on  his  head, 
he  would  have  looked  like  some  alchemist  of  old,  or 
weird  necromancer  weaving  a  mystic  spell.  Some 
times,  as  you  watched  his  face,  with  the  glow  of  the 
coals  lighting  up  his  earnest  eyes,  there  would  have 
flashed  across  his  troubled  features,  as  heat  lightning 
illumines  a  cloud,  some  sudden  brightness  from  with 
in  followed  by  a  quick  smile  of  triumph.  The  rebel 
lious  fragment  had  been  mastered.  For  the  hun 
dredth  time  the  great  motor  was  a  success ! 

And  yet,  had  this  very  pin  or  crank  or  cog,  on 
10 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  KENNEDY  SQUARE 

which  he  had  set  such  store,  refused  the  next  hour 
or  day  or  week  to  do  its  work,  no  trace  of  his  disap 
pointment  would  have  been  found  in  his  face  or 
speech.  His  faith  was  always  supreme;  his  belief 
in  his  ideals  unshaken.  If  the  pin  or  crank  would 
not  answer,  the  lever  or  pulley  would.  It  was  the 
"  adjustment  "  that  was  at  fault,  not  the  principle. 
And  so  the  dear  old  man  would  work  on,  week  after 
week,  only  to  abandon  his  results  again,  and  with 
equal  cheerfulness  and  enthusiasm  to  begin  upon  an 
other  appliance  totally  unlike  any  other  he  had  tried 
before.  "  It  was  only  a  mile-stone,"  he  would  say; 
"  every  one  that  I  pass  brings  me  so  much  nearer  the 
end." 

If  you  had  been  only  a  stranger — some  savant, 
for  instance,  who  wanted  a  problem  in  mechanics 
solved,  or  a  professor,  blinded  by  the  dazzling  light  of 
the  almost  daily  discoveries  of  the  time,  in  search  of 
mental  ammunition  to  fire  back  at  curious  students 
daily  bombarding  you  with  puzzling  questions;  or 
had  you  been  a  thrifty  capitalist,  holding  back  a  first 
payment  until  an  expert  like  Richard  Horn  had 
passed  upon  the  merits  of  some  new  labor-saving  de 
vice  of  the  day;  had  you  been  any  one  of  these,  and 
you  might  very  easily  have  been,  for  such  persons 
came  almost  daily  to  see  him,  the  inventor  would  not 
only  have  listened  to  your  wants,  no  matter  how  ab* 
sorbed  he  might  have  been  in  his  own  work,  but  he 

11 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVEE  HORN 

would  not  have  allowed  you  to  leave  him  until  he 
was  sure  that  your  mind  was  at  rest. 

Had  you,  however,  been  neither  friend  nor  client, 
but  some  unbeliever  fresh  from  the  gossip  of  the  Club, 
where  many  of  the  habitues  not  only  laughed  at  the 
inventor's  predictions  for  the  future,  but  often  lost 
their  tempers  in  discussing  his  revolutionary  ideas ;  or 
had  you,  in  a  spirit  of  temerity,  entered  his  room 
armed  with  arguments  for  his  overthrow,  nothing  that 
your  good-breeding  or  the  lack  of  it  would  have  per 
mitted  you  to  have  said  could  have  ruffled  his  gentle 
spirit.  With  the  tact  of  a  man  of  wide  experience 
among  men,  he  would  have  turned  the  talk  into  an 
other  channel — music,  perhaps,  or  some  topic  of  the 
day — and  all  with  such  exquisite  grace  that  you 
would  have  forgotten  the  subject  you  came  to  discuss 
until  you  found  yourself  outside  the  yard  and  half 
way  across  Kennedy  Square  before  realizing  that  the 
inventor  had  made  no  reply  to  your  attacks. 

But  whoever  you  might  have  been,  whether  the 
friend  of  years,  the  anxious  client,  or  the  trifling  un 
believer,  and  whatever  the  purpose  of  your  visit, 
whether  to  shake  his  hand  again  for  the  very  delight 
of  touching  it,  to  seek  advice,  or  to  combat  his  theories, 
you  would  have  carried  away  the  impression  of  a  man 
whose  like  you  had  never  met  before — a  man  who 
spoke  in  a  low,  gentle  voice,  and  yet  with  an  author 
ity  that  compelled  attention;  enthusiastic  over  the 

12 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  KENNEDY  SQUAKE 

things  lie  loved,  silent  over  those  that  pained  him; 
a  scholar  of  wide  learning,  yet  skilled  in  the  use  of 
tools  that  obeyed  him  as  readily  as  nimble  fingers  do 
a  hand;  a  philosopher  eminently  sane  on  most  of  the 
accepted  theories  of  the  day  and  yet  equally  insistent 
in  his  support  of  many  of  the  supposed  sophistries  and 
so-called  "  fanaticisms  of  the  hour  ";  an  old-time  aris 
tocrat  holding  fast  to  the  class  distinctions  of  his  an 
cestors  and  yet  glorying  in  the  dignity  of  personal 
labor;  a  patriot  loyal  to  the  traditions  of  his  State 
*  and  yet  so  opposed  to  the  bondage  of  men  and  women 
that  he  had  freed  his  own  slaves  the  day  his  father's 
will  was  read;  a  cavalier  reverencing  a  woman  as 
sweetheart,  wife,  and  mother,  and  yet  longing  for  the 
time  to  com*"  when  she,  too,  could  make  a  career,  then 
denied  her,  coequal  in  its  dignity  with  that  of  the  man 
beside  her. 

A  composite  personality  of  strange  contradictions; 
of  pronounced  accomplishments  and  yet  of  equally 
pronounced  failures.  And  yet,  withal,  a  man  so  gra 
cious  in  speech,  so  courtly  in  bearing,  so  helpful  in 
counsel,  so  rational,  human,  and  lovable,  that  agree 
with  him  or  not,  as  you  pleased,  his  vision  would  have 
lingered  with  you  for  days. 

When  night  came  the  inventor  would  rake  the  coals 
from  the  forge,  and  laying  aside  his  paper  cap  and 
calico  gown,  close  the  green  door  of  his  shop,  cross  the 
brick  pavement  of  the  back  yard,  and  ascend  the 

13 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVEK  HORN 

etairs  with  the  spindling  bannisters  to  his  dressing- 
room.  Here  Malachi  would  have  laid  out  the  black 
swallow-tail  coat  with  the  high  velvet  collar,  trous 
ers  to  match,  double-breasted  waistcoat  with  gilt  but 
tons,  and  fluffy  cravat  of  white  silk. 

Then,  while  his  master  was  dressing,  the  old  ser 
vant  would  slip  down-stairs  and  begin  arranging  the 
several  rooms  for  the  evening's  guests — for  there  were 
always  guests  at  night.  The  red  damask  curtains 
would  be  drawn  close,  the  hearth  swept  clean,  and 
fresh  logs  thrown  on  the  andirons.  The  lamp  in  the 
library  would  be  lighted,  and  his  master's  great  easy- 
chair  wheeled  close  to  a  low  table  piled  high  with 
papers  and  magazines,  his  big-eyed  reading-glasses 
within  reach  of  his  hand.  The  paper  would  be  un 
folded,  aired  at  the  snapping  blaze,  and  hung  over 
the  arm  of  the  chair.  These  duties  attended  to,  the 
old  servant,  with  a  last  satisfied  glance  about  the 
room,  would  betake  himself  to  the  foot  of  the  stair 
case,  there  to  await  his  master's  coining,  glancing 
overhead  at  every  sound,  and  ready  to  conduct  him  to 
his  chair  by  the  fire. 

When  Richard,  his  toilet  completed,  appeared  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs,  Malachi  would  stand  until  his 
master  had  reached  the  bottom  step,  wheel  about, 
and,  with  head  up,  gravely  and  noiselessly  precede 
him  into  the  drawing-room — the  only  time  he  ever 
dared  to  walk  before  him — and  with  a  wave  of  the 

14 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  KENNEDY  SQUAKE 

hand  and  the  air  of  a  prince  presenting  one  of  his 
palaces,  would  say — "  Yo'  char's  all  ready,  Marse 
Richard;  bright  fire  burnin'."  Adding,  with  a  low, 
sweeping  bow,  now  that  the  ceremony  was  over — 
"  Hope  yo're  feelin'  fine  dis  evenin',  sah." 

He  had  said  it  hundreds  of  times  in  the  course  of 
the  year,  but  always  with  a  salutation  that  was  a 
special  tribute,  and  always  with  the  same  low  bow, 
?£  he  gravely  pulled  out  the  chair,  puffing  up  the 
back  cushion,  his  wrinkled  hands  resting  on  it  until 
Richard  had  taken  his  seat.  Then,  with  equal  grav 
ity,  he  would  hand  his  master  the  evening  paper  and 
the  big-bowed  spectacles,  and  would  stand  gravely 
by  until  Richard  had  dismissed  him  with  a  gentle 
"  Thank  you,  Malachi;  that  will  do."  And  Malachi, 
with  the  serene,  uplifted  face  as  of  one  who  had 
served  in  a  temple,  would  tiptoe  out  to  his  pantry. 

It  had  gone  on  for  years — this  waiting  for  Rich 
ard  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase.  Malachi  had  never 
missed  a  night  when  his  master  was  at  home.  It  was 
not  his  duty — not  a  part  of  the  established  regime 
of  the  old  house.  ISTo  other  family  servant  about  Ken 
nedy  Square  performed  a  like  service  for  master  or 
mistress.  It  was  not  even  a  custom  of  the  times. 

It  was  only  one  of  "  Malachi's  ways,"  Richard 
would  say,  with  a  gentle  smile  quivering  about  his 
lips. 

"  I  do  dat  'cause  it's  Marse  Richard — dat's  all," 
15 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Malachi  would  answer,  drawing  himself  up  wTitli  the 
dignity  of  a  chamberlain  serving  a  king,  when  some 
one  had  the  audacity  to  question  him — a  liberty  he 
always  resented. 

They  had  been  boys  together — these  two.  They 
had  fished  and  hunted  and  robbed  birds'  nests  and 
gone  swimming  with  each  other.  They  had  fought 
for  each  other,  and  been  whipped  for  each  other  many 
and  many  a  time  in  the  old  plantation-days.  Night 
after  night  in  the  years  that  followed  they  had  sat 
by  each  other  when  one  or  the  other  was  ill. 

And  now  that  each  was  an  old  man  the  mutual  ser 
vice  was  still  continued. 

"  How  are  you  getting  on  now,  Malachi — better? 
Ah,  that's  good — "  and  the  master's  thin  white  hand 
would  be  laid  on  the  black  wrinkled  head  with  a 
soothing  touch. 

"  Allus  feels  better,  Marse  Richard,  when  I  kin- 
git  hold  ob  yo'  han',  sah —  "  Malachi  would  answer. 

Not  his  slave,  remember.  Not  so  many  pounds  of 
human  flesh  and  bone  and  brains  condemned  to  his 
service  for  life;  for  Malachi  was  free  to  come  and 
go  and  had  been  so  privileged  since  the  day  the  old 
Horn  estate  had  been  settled  twenty  years  before, 
when  Richard  had  given  him  his  freedom  with  the 
other  slaves  that  fell  to  his  lot;  not  that  kind  of  a 
servitor  at  all,  but  his  comrade,  his  chum,  his  friend; 
Hie  one  man,  black  as  he  was,  in  all  the  world  who 

16 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  KENNEDY  SQUARE 

in  laying  down  his  life  for  him  would  but  have 
counted  it  as  gain. 

Just  before  tea  Mrs.  Horn,  with  a  thin  gossamer 
shawl  about  her  shoulders,  would  come  down  from 
her  bedroom  above  and  join  her  husband.  Then 
young  Oliver  himself  would  come  bounding  in,  al 
ways  a  little  late,  but  always  with  his  face  aglow  and 
always  bubbling  over  with  laughter,  until  Malachi, 
now  that  the  last  member  of  the  family  was  at  home, 
would  throw  open  the  mahogany  doors,  and  high  tea 
would  be  served  in  the  dining-room  on  the  well- 
rubbed,  unclothed  mahogany  table,  the  plates,  forks, 
and  saucers  under  Malachi's  manipulations  touching 
the  polished  wood  as  noiselessly  as  soap-bubbles. 

Tea  served  and  over,  Malachi  would  light  the  can 
dles  in  the  big,  cut-glass  chandelier  in  the  front  par 
lor — the  especial  pride  of  the  hostess,  it  having  hung 
in  her  father's  house  in  Virginia. 

After  this  he  would  retire  once  more  to  his  pantry, 
this  time  to  make  ready  for  some  special  function  to 
follow;  for  every  evening  at  the  Horn  mansion  had 
its  separate  festivity.  On  Mondays  small  whist-tables 
that  unfolded  or  let  down  or  evolved  from  half-moons 
into  circles,  their  tops  covered  with  green  cloth,  were 
pulled  out  or  moved  around  so  as  to  form  the  centres 
of  cosey  groups.  Some  extra  sticks  of  hickory  would 
be  brought  in  and  piled  on  the  andirons,  and  the  huge 
library-table,  always  covered  with  the  magazines  of 

17 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

the  day — LitteWs,  Westminster,  Blackwood's,  and  the 
Scientific  Review,  would  be  pushed  back  against  the 
wall  to  make  room. 

On  Wednesdays  there  would  be  a  dinner  at  six 
o'clock,  served  without  pretence  or  culinary  assistance 
from  the  pastry-cook  outside — even  the  ices  were  pre 
pared  at  home.  To  these  dinners  any  distinguished 
strangers  who  were  passing  through  the  city  were 
sure  to  be  invited.  Malachi  in  his  time  had  served 
many  famous  men — Charles  Dickens,  Ole  Bull, 
Macready,  and  once  the  great  Mr.  Thackeray  himself 
with  a  second  glass  of  "  that  pale  sherry,  if  you 
please,"  and  at  the  great  man's  request,  too.  An  ap 
preciation  which,  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Thackeray,  had 
helped  to  mollify  Malachi's  righteous  wrath  over  the 
immortal  novelist's  ignorance  of  Southern  dishes: 

"  Dat  fat  gemman  wid  de  gold  specs  dat  dey  do 
say  is  so  mighty  great,  ain't  eat  nuffin  yet  but  soup 
an'  a  li'l  mite  o'  'tater,"  he  said  to  Aunt  Hannah  on 
one  of  his  trips  to  the  kitchen  as  dinner  went  on. 
"  He  let  dat  tar'pin  an'  dem  ducks  go  by  him  same 
as  dey  was  pizen.  But  I  lay  he  knows  'bout  dat  ole 
yaller  sherry,"  and  Malachi  chuckled.  "  He  keeps  a' 
retchin'  fur  dat  decanter  as  if  he  was  'feared  some- 
body'd  git  it  fust." 

On  Fridays  there  would  invariably  be  a  musicale — 
generally  a  quartette,  with  a  few  connoisseurs  to 
listen  and  to  criticise.  Then  the  piano  would  be 

18 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  KENNEDY  SQUARE 

drawn  out  from  its  corner  and  the  lid  propped  up, 
so  that  Max  Unger  of  the  "  Harmonie  "  could  find 
a  place  for  his  'cello  behind  it,  and  there  still  be  room 
for  the  inventor  with  his  violin — a  violin  with  a  tradi 
tion,  for  Ole  Bull  had  once  played  on  it  and  in  that 
same  room,  too,  and  had  said  it  had  the  soul  of  a  Cre 
mona — which  was  quite  true  when  Richard  Horn 
touched  its  strings. 

On  all  the  other  nights  of  the  week  Mrs.  Horn 
was  at  home  to  all  who  came.  Some  gentle  old  lady 
from  across  the  Square,  perhaps,  in  lace  caps  and  rib 
bons,  with  a  work-basket  filled  with  fancy  crewels,  and 
whose  big  son  came  at  nine  o'clock  to  take  her  home ; 
or  Oliver's  young  friends,  boys  and  girls ;  or  old  Doc 
tor  Wallace,  full  of  the  day's  gossip;  or  Miss  Lavinia 
Clendenning,  with  news  of  the  latest  Assembly;  or 
Nathan  Gill  with  his  flute. 

But  then  it  was  Nathan  always,  whatever  the  oc 
casion.  From  the  time  Malachi  unlocked  the  front 
doors  in  the  morning  until  he  bolted  them  for  the 
night,  Nathan  came  and  went.  The  brick  pavements 
were  worn  smooth,  the  neighbors  said,  between  the 
flute-player's  humble  lodgings  in  a  side  street  and 
the  Horn  house,  so  many  trips  a  day  did  the  old  man 
make.  People  smiled  at  him  as  he  hurried  along, 
his  head  bent  forward,  his  long  pen-wiper  cloak  reach 
ing  to  his  heels,  a  wide-brimmed  Quaker  hat  crown 
ing  his  head. 

19 


THE  FOKTUKES  OF  OLIVEK  HOKN 

And  always,  whenever  the  night  or  whatever  the 
function  or  whoever  the  guests,  a  particular  side-table 
was  sure  to  be  moved  in  from  Malachi's  pantry  and 
covered  with  a  snow-white  cloth  which  played  an  im 
portant  part  in  the  evening's  entertainment.  This 
-cloth  was  never  empty.  Upon  its  damask  surface 
were  laid  a  pile  of  India-blue  plates  and  a  silver  basket 
of  cake,  besides  a  collection  of  low  glass  tumblers  with 
little  handles,  designed  to  hold  various  brews  of  Mal 
achi's  own  concoctions,  which  he  alone  of  all  the  deni 
zens  of  Kennedy  Square  could  compound,  and  the 
secret  of  which  unhappily  has  perished  with  him. 

And  what  wondrous  aromas,  too! 

You  may  not  believe  it,  but  I  assure  you,  on  the 
honor  of  a  \7irginian,  that  for  every  one  of  these  dif 
ferent  nights  in  the  old  house  on  Kennedy  Square 
there  were  special  savory  odors  emanating  from  these 
brews,  which  settled  at  once  and  beyond  question  the 
precise  function  of  the  evening,  and  all  before  you 
could  hand  your  hat  to  Malachi.  If,  for  instance,  as 
the  front  door  was  opened  the  aroma  wras  one  of  hot 
coffee  and  the  dry  smell  of  fresh  wafer-biscuit  min 
gled  with  those  of  a  certain  brand  of  sherry,  then  it 
was  always  to  be  plain  whist  in  the  parlor,  with  per 
haps  only  Colonel  Clayton  and  Miss  Clendenning  or 
some  one  of  the  old  ladies  of  the  neighborhood,  to  hold 
hands  in  a  rubber.  If  the  fumes  of  apple-toddy  min 
gled  with  the  fragrance  of  toasted  apples  were  wafted 

90 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  KENNEDY  SQUARE 

your  way,  you  might  be  sure  that  Max  Unger,  and 
perhaps  Bobbinette,  second  violin,  and  Nathan — what 
ever  the  function  it  was  always  Nathan,  it  must  be 
remembered — and  a  few  kindred  spirits  who  loved 
good  music  were  expected;  and  at  the  appointed  hour 
Malachi,  his  hands  encased  in  white  cotton  gloves, 
would  enter  with  a  flourish,  and  would  graciously  beg 
leave  to  pass,  the  huge  bowl  held  high  above  his 
head  filled  to  the  brim  with  smoking  apple-toddy,  the 
little  pippins  browned  to  a  turn  floating  on  its  top. 

If  the  occasion  was  one  of  great  distinction,  one  that 
fell  on  Christmas  or  on  New  Year's,  or  which  cele 
brated  some  important  family  gathering,  the  pungent 
odor  of  eggnog  would  have  greeted  you  even  before 
you  could  have  slipped  off  your  gum-shoes  in  the  hall, 
or  hung  your  coat  on  the  mahogany  rack.  This  se 
ductive  concoction — the  most  potent  of  all  Malachi's 
beverages — was  always  served  from  a  green  and  gold 
Chinese  bowl,  and  drunk  not  from  the  customary  low 
tumblers,  but  from  special  Spode  cups,  and  was,  I 
must  confess,  productive  of  a  head — for  I  myself  was 
once  tempted  to  drink  a  bumper  of  it  at  this  most 
delightful  of  houses  with  young  Oliver,  many  years 
ago,  it  is  true,  but  I  have  never  forgotten  it — pro 
ductive  of  an  aching  head,  I  think  I  said,  that  felt 
as  big  in  the  morning  as  the  Canton  bowl  in  which 
the  mixture  had  been  brewed. 

Or,  if  none  of  these  functions  or  festivals  were 
21 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVEE  HORN 

taking  place,  and  only  one  or  two  old  cronies  liad 
dropped  in  on  their  way  from  the  Club,  and  had 
drawn  up  their  chairs  close  to  the  dining-room  table, 
and  you  had  happened  to  be  hanging  up  your  hat 
in  the  hall  at  that  moment,  you  would  have  been 
conscious  of  an  aroma  as  delicate  in  flavor  as  that 
wafted  across  summer  seas  from  far-off  tropic  isles; 
of  pomegranates,  if  you  will,  ripening  by  crumbling 
walls;  of  purple  grapes  drinking  in  the  sun;  of  pine 
and  hemlock;  of  sweet  spices  and  the  scent  of  roses, 
or  any  other  combination  of  delightful  things  which 
your  excited  imagination  might  suggest. 

You  would  have  known  then  just  what  had  taken 
place;  how,  when  the  gentlemen  were  seated,  Mala- 
chi  in  his  undress  blue  coat  and  brass  buttons  had 
approached  his  master  noiselessly  from  behind,  and 
with  a  gravity  that  befitted  the  occasion  had  bent  low 
his  head,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  his  head  turned 
on  one  side,  and  in  a  hushed  voice  had  asked  this  most 
portentous  question: 

"Which  Madeira,  Marse  Richard?" 

The  only  answer  would  have  been  a  lifting  of  the 
eyebrow  and  an  imperceptible  nod  of  his  master's  head 
in  the  direction  of  the  mahogany  cellaret. 

Malachi  understood. 

It  was  the  Tiernan  of  '29. 

And  that  worthy  "  Keeper  of  the  Privy  Seal  and 
Key,"  pausing  for  an  instant  with  his  brown  jug  of 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN"  KENNEDY  SQUAKE 

a  head  bent  before  the  cellaret,  as  a  Mohammedan 
bends  his  head  before  a  wall  facing  Mecca,  had  there 
upon  unlocked  its  secret  chambers  and  had  produced 
a  low,  deeply  cut  decanter  topped  by  a  wondrous  glass 
stopper.  This  he  had  placed,  with  conscious  im 
portance,  on  a  small  table  before  the  two  or  three  dev 
otees  gathered  together  in  its  honor,  and  the  host, 
removing  the  stopper,  had  filled  the  slender  glasses 
with  a  vintage  that  had  twice  rounded  the  Cape — 
a  wine  of  such  rare  lineage  and  flavor  that  those  who 
had  the  honor  of  its  acquaintance  always  spoke  of  it 
as  one  of  the  most  precious  possessions  of  the  town — 
a  wine,  too,  of  so  delicate  an  aroma  that  those  within 
the  charmed  circle  invariably  lifted  the  thin  glasses 
and  dreamily  inhaled  its  perfume  before  they  granted 
their  palates  a  drop. 

Ah,  those  marvellous,  unforgettable  aromas  that 
come  to  me  out  of  the  long  ago  with  all  the  reminders 
they  bring  of  clink  of  glass  and  touch  of  elbow,  of 
happy  boys  and  girls  and  sweet  old  faces.  It  is  forty 
years  since  they  greeted  my  nostrils  in  the  cool,  bare, 
uncurtained  hall  of  the  old  house  in  Kennedy  Square, 
but  they  are  still  fresh  in  my  memory.  Sometimes 
it  is  the  fragrance  of  newly  made  gingerbread,  or  the 
scent  of  creamy  custard  with  just  a  suspicion  of 
peach-kernels;  sometimes  it  is  the  scent  of  fresh 
strawberries — strawberries  that  meant  the  spring,  not 
the  hot-house  or  Bermuda — and  sometimes  it  is  the 

23 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

smell  of  roasted  oysters  or  succulent  canvas-backs! 
Forty  years  ago — and  yet  even  to-day  the  perfume  of 
a  roasted  apple  never  greets  me  but  I  stand  once  more 
in  the  old-fashioned  room  listening  to  the  sound  of 
Nathan's  flute;  I  see  again  the  stately,  silver-haired, 
high-bred  mistress  of  the  mansion  with  her  kindly 
greeting,  as  she  moves  among  her  guests ;  I  catch  the 
figure  of  that  old  darkey  with  his  brown,  bald  head 
and  the  little  tufts  of  gray  wool  fringing  its  sides,  as 
he  shuffles  along  in  his  blue  coat  and  baggy  white 
waistcoat  and  much-too-big  gloves,  and  I  hear  the 
very  tones  of  his  voice  as  he  pushes  his  seductive  tray 
before  me  and  whispers,  confidentially: 

"  Take  a  li'l  ob  de  apple,  sah;    dat's  whar  de  real 
'spression  ob  de  toddy  is." 


CHAPTER  II 


It  was  one  of  those  Friday  evenings,  then,  when 
the  smell  of  roast  apples  steeping  in  hot  toddy  came 
wafting  out  the  portals  of  Malachi's  pantry — a  smell 
of  such  convincing  pungency  that  even  the  most  in 
frequent  of  frequenters  having  once  inhaled  it,  would 
*have  known  at  the  first  whiff  that  some  musical  func 
tion  was  in  order.  The  night  was  to  be  one  of  unusual 
interest. 

Nathan  Gill  and  Max  linger  were  expected,  and 
Miss  Lavinia  Clendenning,  completing  with  Richard 
a  quartette  for  'cello,  flute,  piano,  and  violin,  for 
which  Unger  had  arranged  Beethoven's  Overture  to 
"  Fidelio." 

Nathan,  of  course,  arrived  first.  On  ordinary  occa 
sions  another  of  those  quaint  ceremonies  for  which  the 
house  was  famous  would  always  take  place  when  the 
old  flute-player  entered  the  drawing-room — a  cere 
mony  which  brought  a  smile  to  the  lips  of  those  who 
had  watched  it  for  years,  and  which  to  this  day  brings 
one  to  those  who  recall  it.  Nathan,  with  a  look  of 
quizzical  anxiety  on  his  pinched  face,  would  tiptoe 
cautiously  into  the  room,  peering  about  to  make  sure 

25 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

of  Richard's  presence,  his  thin,  almost  transparent 
fingers  outspread  before  him  to  show  Richard  that 
they  were  empty.  Richard  would  step  forward  and, 
with  a  tone  of  assumed  solicitude  in  his  voice,  would 
say: 

"  Don't  tell  me,  Nathan,  that  you  have  forgotten 
your  flute  ?  "  and  Nathan,  pausing  for  a  moment, 
would  suddenly  break  into  a  smile,  and  with  a  queer 
little  note  of  surprise  in  his  throat,  and  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye,  would  make  answer  by  slowly  drawing  from 
his  coat-tail  pocket  the  three  unjointed  pieces,  hold 
ing  them  up  with  an  air  of  triumph  and  slowly  putting 
them  together.  Then  these  two  old  "  Merry- An 
drews  "  would  lock  arms  and  stroll  into  the  library, 
laughing  like  school-boys. 

To-night,  however,  as  Nathan  had  been  specially 
invited  to  play,  this  little  ceremony  was  omitted.  On 
entering  the  hall  the  musician  gave  his  long,  black, 
pen-wiper  cloak  and  his  hat  to  Malachi,  and  sup 
porting  himself  by  his  delicate  fingers  laid  flat  on  the 
hall-table,  extended  first  one  thin  leg,  and  then  the 
other,  while  that  obsequious  darky  unbuttoned  his 
gaiters.  His  feet  free,  he  straightened  himself  up, 
pulled  the  precious  flute  from  his  coat-tail  pocket  and 
carefully  joined  the  parts.  This  done,  he  gave  a  look 
into  the  hall-mirror,  puffed  out  his  scarf,  combed 
his  straight  white  hair  forward  over  his  ears  with 
his  fingers,  and  at  Malachi's  announcement  glided 

26 


STRAINS  FROM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

.through  the  open  doorway  to  Mrs.  Horn's  chair,  the 
flute  in  his  hand  held  straight  out  as  an  orator  would 
have  held  his  roll. 

The  hostess,  who  had  been  sitting  by  the  fire,  her 
white  gossamer  shawl  about  her  spare  shoulders,  rose 
from  her  high-backed  chair  and,  laying  aside  her 
knitting-needles  and  wools,  greeted  the  musician  with 
as  much  cordiality — and  it  must  be  confessed  with, 
as  much  ceremony — as  if  she  had  not  seen  him  a 
dozen  times  that  week.  One  of  the  charms  of  the 
ilorn  mansion  lay  in  these  delightful  blendings  of 
affection  and  formality. 

"Am  I  a  little  early?"  he  asked  with  as  much 
surprise  as  if  he  were  not  as  certain  to  be  early 
when  music  was  concerned  as  he  was  to  be  late  in 
everything  else.  "  Yes,  my  dear  madam — I  see  that 
I  am  early,  unless  Miss  Lavinia  is  late." 

"  You  never  could  be  too  early,  Nathan.  Lavinia 
will  be  here  in  a  moment,"  she  answered,  with  a 
smile,  resuming  her  seat. 

"  I'm  glad  that  I'm  ahead  of  her  for  once,"  he 
replied,  laughing.  Then,  turning  to  the  inventor, 
who  had  come  forward  from  where  he  had  been 
studying  the  new  score,  he  laid  his  hand  affection 
ately  011  Richard's  shoulder,  as  a  boy  would  have 
done,  and  added:  "How  do  you  like  Unger's  new 
arrangement? — I've  been  thinking  of  nothing  else 
all  day." 

27 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  Capital !  Capital !  "  answered  Richard,  slipping 
his  arm  into  Nathan's,  and  drawing  him  closer  to  the 
piano.  "  See  how  he  has  treated  this  adagio  phrase," 
and  he  followed  the  line  with  his  finger,  humming 
the  tune  to  Nathan.  "  The  modulation,  you  see,  is 
from  E  Major  to  A  Major,  and  the  flute  sustains  the 
melody,  the  effect  is  so  peculiarly  soft  and  the  whole 
so  bright  with  passages  of  sunshine  all  through  it 
— oh,  you  will  love  it." 

While  these  two  white-haired  enthusiasts  with 
their  heads  together  were  studying  the  score,  beat 
ing  time  with  their  hands,  after  the  manner  of  ex 
perts  to  whom  all  the  curious  jumble  of  dots  and 
lines  that  plague  so  many  of  us  are  as  plain  as  print, 
Malachi  was  receiving  Miss  Clendenning  in  the  hall. 
Indeed,  he  had  answered  her  knock  as  Nathan  was 
passing  into  the  drawing-room. 

The  new  arrival  bent  her  neck  until  Malachi  had 
relieved  her  of  the  long  hooded  cloak,  gave  a  quick 
stamp  with  her  little  feet  as  she  shook  out  her  bal 
loon  skirts,  and  settled  herself  on  the  hall-settee 
while  Malachi  unwound  the  white  worsted  "  nubia  " 
from  her  aristocratic  throat.  This  done,  she,  too, 
held  a  short  consultation  with  the  hall-mirror,  care 
fully  dusting,  with  her  tiny  handkerchief,  the  little 
pats  of  powder  still  left  on  her  cheeks,  and  with  her 
jewelled  fingers  smoothing  the  soft  hair  parted  over 
her  forehead,  and  tightening  meanwhile  the  side- 

28 


STRAINS  FROM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

combs  that  kept  in  place  the  clusters  of  short  curls 
which  framed  her  face.  Then,,  with  head  erect  and  a 
gracious  recognition  of  the  old  servant's  ministra 
tions,  she  floated  past  Malachi,  bent  double  in  her 
honor. 

"  Oh,  I  heard  you,  Nathan,"  she  laughed,  waving 
her  fan  toward  him  as  she  entered  the  room.  "  I'm 
not  one  minute  late.  Did  you  ever  hear  such  im 
pudence,  Sallie,  and  all  because  he  reached  your  door 
one  minute  before  me,"  she  added,  stooping  to  kiss 
^Mrs.  Horn.  Punctuality  was  one  of  the  cardinal 
virtues  of  this  most  distinguished,  prim,  precise,  and 
most  lovable  of  old  maids.  "  You  are  really  getting 
to  be  dreadful,  Mr.  Nathan  Gill,  and  so  puffed  up 
— isn't  he,  Richard?  "  As  she  spoke  she  turned 
abruptly  and  faced  both  gentlemen.  Then,  with  one 
of  her  rippling  laughs — a  laugh  that  Richard  always 
said  reminded  him  of  the  notes  of  a  bird — she  caught 
her  skirts  in  her  fingers,  made  the  most  sweeping  of 
courtesies  and  held  out  her  hands  to  the  two  gentle 
men  who  were  crossing  the  room  to  meet  her. 

Richard,  with  the  bow  of  a  Cavalier,  kissed  the 
one  offered  him  as  gallantly  as  if  she  had  been  a 
duchess,  telling  her  he  had  the  rarest  treat  in  store 
for  her  as  soon  as  linger  came,  and  Nathan  with 
mock  devotion  held  the  other  between  his  two  palms, 
and  said  that  to  be  scolded  by  Miss  Clendenning  was 
infinitely  better  than  being  praised  by  anybody  else. 
These  pleasantries  over,  the  two  old  gallants  returned 

29 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER 

to  the  piano  to  wait  for  Max  linger  and  to  study 
again  the  crumpled  pages  of  the  score  which  lay 
under  the  soft  light  of  the  candles. 

The  room  relapsed  once  more  into  its  wonted  quiet, 
broken  only  by  the  whispered  talk  of  well-bred  peo 
ple  careful  not  to  disturb  each  other.  Mrs.  Horn 
had  begun  to  knit  again.  Miss  Clendenning  stood 
facing  the  fire,  one  foot  resting  on  the  fender. 

This  wee  foot  of  the  little  lady  was  the  delight 
and  admiration  of  all  the  girls  about  Kennedy 
Square,  and  of  many  others  across  the  seas,  too — 
men  and  women  for  that  matter.  To-night  it  was 
encased  in  a  black  satin  slipper  and  in  a  white  spider- 
web  stocking,  about  which  were  crossed  two  narrow 
black  ribbons  tied  in  a  bow  around  the  ankle — such 
a  charming  little  slipper  peeping  out  from  petticoats 
all  bescalloped  and  belaced!  Everything  in  fact 
about  this  dainty  old  maid,  with  her  trim  figure  fill 
ing  out  her  soft  white  fichu,  still  had  that  subtlety  of 
charm  which  had  played  havoc  with  more  than  one 
heart  in  her  day.  Only  Sallie  Horn,  who  had  all  the 
dear  woman's  secrets,  knew  where  those  little  feet 
had  stepped  and  what  hopes  they  had  crushed.  Only 
Sallie  Horn,  too,  knew  why  the  delicate  finger  was 
still  bare  of  a  plain  gold  ring.  The  world  never 
thought  it  had  made  any  difference  to  Miss  Lavinia, 
but  then  the  world  had  never  peeped  under  the  lower 
lid  of  Miss  Clendenning's  heart. 

30 


STKAINS  FKOM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

Suddenly  the  hushed  quiet  of  the  room  was  broken 
by  a  loud  knock  at  the  front  door,  or  rather  by  a 
series  of  knocks,  so  quick  and  sharp  that  Malachi 
started  from  his  pantry  on  the  run. 

"  That  must  be  Max,"  said  Eichard.  "  Now,  La- 
vinia,  we  will  move  the  piano,  so  as  to  give  you  more 
room." 

Mrs.  Horn  pushed  back  her  chair,  rose  to  her  feet, 
and  stood  waiting  to  receive  the  noted  'cellist,  with 
out  whom  not  a  note  could  be  sounded,  and  Miss 
Clendenning  took  her  foot  from  the  fender  and 
dropped  her  skirts. 

But  it  was  not  Max! 

Not  wheezy,  perspiring  old  Max  linger  after  all, 
walking  into  the  room  mopping  his  face  with  one 
hand  and  with  the  other  lugging  his  big  'cello,  em 
balmed  in  a  green  baize  bag — he  would  never  let 
Malachi  touch  it — not  Max  at  all,  but  a  fresh,  rosy- 
cheeked  young  fellow  of  twenty-two,  who  came 
bounding  in  with  a  laugh,  tossing  his  hat  to  Malachi 
— a  well-knit,  muscular  young  fellow,  with  a  mouth 
full  of  white  teeth  and  a  broad  brow  projecting  over 
two  steel-blue  eyes  that  were  snapping  with  fun. 

With  his  coming  the  quiet  of  the  place  departed 
and  a  certain  breezy  atmosphere  permeated  the  room 
as  if  a  gust  of  cool  wind  had  followed  him.  With 
him,  too,  came  a  hearty,  whole-souled  joyousness — 
a  joyousness  of  so  sparkling  and  so  radiant  a  kind 

31 


THE  FOETUSES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

that  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  sunshine  he  had  breathed 
for  twenty  years  in  Kennedy  Square  had  somehow 
been  stored  away  in  his1  boyish  veins. 

"  Oh,  here  you  are,  you  dear  Miss  Lavinia,"  he 
cried  out,  his  breath  half  gone  from  his  dash  across 
the  Square.  "  How  did  you  get  here  first?  " 

"  On  my  two  feet,  you  stupid  Oliver,"  cried  Miss 
Lavinia,  shaking  her  curls  at  him.  "  Did  you  think 
somebody  carried  me?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't;  but  that  wouldn't  be  much  to 
carry,  Miss  Midget."  His  pet  name  for  her.  "  But 
which  way  did  you  come?  I  looked  up  and  down 
every  path  and 

"  And  went  all  the  way  round  by  Sue  Clayton's 
to  find  me,  didn't  you?  Oh,  you  can't  throw  dust 
in  the  Midget's  eyes,  you  young  rascal!  "  and  she 
stretched  up  her  two  dainty  hands,  drew  his  face 
toward  her,  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips. 

"  There — "  and  she  patted  his  cheek —  "  now  tell 
me  all  about  it,  you  dear  Ollie.  What  did  you 
want  to  see  me  for  ?  "  she  added  with  one  of  those 
quick  divinations  that  made  her  so  helpful  a  con 
fidante.  Then,  in  a  lowered  voice —  "  What  has  Sue 
done?" 

"  Nothing — not  one  thing.  She  isn't  bothering 
her  head  about  me.  I  only  stopped  there  to  leave  a 
book,  and " 

Mrs.  Horn,  with  laughing,  inquiring  eyes,  looked 
32 


STRAINS  FROM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

up  from  her  chair  at  Miss  Clendenning,  and  made  a 
little  doubting  sound  with  her  lips.  Black-eyed  Sue 
Clayton,  with  her  curls  down  her  back,  home  from 
boarding-school  for  the  Easter  holidays,  was  Oliver's 
latest  flame.  His  mother  loved  to  tease  him  about 
his  love-affairs;  and  always  liked  him  to  have  a  new 
one.  She  could  see  farther  into  his  heart  she  thought 
when  the  face  of  some  sweet  girl  lay  mirrored  in  its 
depths. 

Oliver  heard  the  doubting  sound  his  mother  made, 
and,  reaching  over  her  chair,  flung  his  arms  about 
*her  neck  and  kissed  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  girl. 

"  Now,  don't  you  laugh,  you  dear  old  motherkins," 
he  cried,  drawing  her  nearer  to  him  until  her  face 
touched  his.  "  Sue  don't  care  a  thing  about  me,  and 
I  did  promise  her  the  book,  and  I  ran  every  step  of 
the  way  to  give  it  to  her — didn't  I,  Uncle  Nat?  "  he 
added,  gayly,  hoping  to  divert  the  topic.  "  You  were 
behind  the  sun-dial  when  I  passed — don't  you  re 
member?  "  He  shrank  a  little  from  the  badinage. 

The  old  musician  heard  the  question,  but  only 
waved  his  flute  behind  him  in  answer.  He  did  not 
even  lift  his  head  from  beside  Richard's  at  the  score. 

Oliver  waited  an  instant,  and  getting  no  further 
reply,  released  his  hold  about  his  mother's  neck,  now 
that  he  had  kissed  her  into  silence,  and  turned  to  Miss 
Clendenning  again. 

"  Come,  Miss  Lavinia — come  into  the  library.  I've 
33 


THE  rOETUlSTES  OF  OLIVEK  HORN 

something  very  important  to  talk  to  you  about. 
Really,  now;  no  nonsense  about  it!  You've  plenty 
of  time — old  Max  won't  be  here  for  an  hour,  he's  al 
ways  late,  isn't  he,  mother? " 

Miss  Clendenning  turned  quietly,  lifted  her  eyes 
in  a  martyr-like  way  toward  Mrs.  Horn,  who  shook 
her  head  playfully  in  answer,  and  with  Oliver's  arm 
about  her  entered  the  library.  She  could  never  re 
fuse  any  one  of  the  young  people  when  they  came 
to  her  with  their  secrets — most  important  and  never- 
to-be-postponed  secrets,  of  course,  that  could  hardly 
wait  the  telling.  Her  little  tea-room  across  the 
Square,  with  its  red  damask  curtains,  its  shiny  brass 
andirons,  easy-chairs  and  lounges,  was  really  more 
of  a  confessional  than  a  boudoir.  Many  a  sorrow  had 
been  drowned  in  the  cups  of  tea  that  she  had  served 
with  her  own  hand  in  egg-shell  Spode  cups,  and  many 
a  young  girl  and  youth  who  had  entered  its  cosey 
interior  with  heavy  hearts  had  left  it  with  the  sun 
shine  of  a  new  hope  breaking  through  their  tears. 
But  then  everybody  knew  the  bigness  of  Miss  Clen- 
denning's  sympathies.  It  was  one  of  the  things  for 
which  they  loved  her. 

She,  of  course,  knew  what  the  boy  wanted  now. 
If  it  were  not  to  talk  about  Sue  Clayton  it  was  sure 
to  be  about  some  one  of  the  other  girls.  The  young 
people  thought  of  nothing  else  but  their  love-affairs, 
and  talked  of  nothing  else,  and  the  old  people  loved 

34 


STRAINS  FROM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

to  live  their  youth  over  again  in  listening.     It  was 
one  of  the  traditional  customs  of  Kennedy  Square. 

Miss  Clendenning  settled  herself  in  a  corner  of  the 
carved  haircloth  sofa,  touched  her  side-combs  with 
her  finger  to  see  that  they  were  in  place,  tucked  a 
red  cushion  behind  her  back,  crossed  her  two  little 
feet  on  a  low  stool,  the  two  toes  peeping  out  like 
the  heads  of  two  mice,  and  taking  Oliver's  hand  in 
hers  said,  in  her  sweet,  coaxing  voice: 

"  Now,  you  dear  boy,  it  is  Sue,  isn't  it?  " 
4   "No!" 

"Not  Sue?    Who  then?" 

"Mr.  Crocker." 

"  What  Mr.  Crocker?  "  She  arched  her  eyebrows 
and  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  The  name  came  as 
a  shock.  She  knew  of  Mr.  Crocker,  of  course,  but  she 
wanted  Oliver  to  describe  him.  Surely,  she  thought, 
with  a  sudden  sense  of  alarm,  the  boy  has  not  fallen 
in  love  with  the  daughter  of  that  shabby  old  man. 

"  Why,  the  landscape-painter — the  one  father 
knows.  I  have  been  taking  drawing  lessons  of  him 
and  he  says  I've  got  a  lot  of  talent  and  that  all  I 
want  is  practice.  He  says  that  if  I  begin  now  and 
draw  from  the  cast  three  or  four  hours  a  day  that  by 
the  end  of  the  year  I  can  begin  in  color;  and  then 
I  can  go  to  New  York  and  study,  and  then  to  Paris." 

The  little  lady  scrutinized  him  from  under  hef 
syelids.  The  boy's  enthusiasm  always  delighted 

8fi 


she  would  often  forget  what  he  was  talking  about, 
so  interested  was  she  in  following  his  gestures  as 
he  spoke. 

"  And  what  then?  " 

"  Why  then  I  can  be  a  painter,  of  course.  Isn't 
that  a  great  deal  better  than  sitting  every  day  in 
Judge  Ellicott's  dingy  office  reading  law-books?  I 
hate  the  law!  " 

"And  you  love  Mr.  Crocker?" 

"Yes,  don't  you?" 

"  I  don't  know  him,  Ollie.  Tell  me  what  he  is 
like." 

"  Well,  he  isn't  young  any  more.  He's  about 
father's  age,  but  he's  a  splendid  old  man,  and  he's  so 
poor!  Nobody  buys  his  pictures,  nor  appreciates  him, 
and,  just  think,  he  has  to  paint  portraits  and  dogs 
and  anything  he  can  get  to  do.  Don't  you  think 
that's  a  shame?  Nobody  goes  to  see  him  but  father 
and  Uncle  Nat  and  one  or  two  others.  They  don't 
seem  to  think  him  a  gentleman."  He  was  putting 
the  case  so  as  to  enlist  all  her  sympathies  at  once. 

"  He  has  a  daughter,  hasn't  he  ? "  She  was 
probing  him  quietly  and  without  haste.  Time 
enough  for  her  sympathies  to  work  when  she  got  at 
the  facts. 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  like  her  very  much,  for  I  don't 
think  she's  very  good  to  him."  Miss  Clendenning 
smothered  a  little  sigh  of  relief;  there  was  no  danger, 


STRAINS  FROM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

thank  Heaven,  in  that  direction !  What,  then,  could 
he  want,  she  thought  to  herself. 

"  And  he's  so  different  from  anybody  I  ever  met," 
Oliver  continued.  "  He  doesn't  talk  about  horses 
and  duck-shooting  and  politics,  or  music  or  cards  like 
everyone  you  meet,  except  Daddy,  but  he  talks  about 
pictures  and  artists  and  great  men.  Just  think,  he 
was  a  young  student  in  Diisseldorf  for  two  years,  and 
then  he  shouldered  a  knapsack  and  tramped  all 
through  Switzerland,  painting  as  he  went,  and  often 
^paying  for  his  lodgings  with  his  sketches.  Then  he 
was  in  Paris  for  ever  so  long,  and  now  he  is  hero, 
where " 

"  Where  you  tell  me  he  is  painting  dogs  for  a 
living,"  interrupted  Miss  Clendenning.  "  Do  you 
think,  you  young  scapegrace,  that  this  would  be  bet 
ter  than  being  a  lawyer  like  Judge  Ellicott?  "  and 
she  turned  upon  him  with  one  of  her  quick  outbursts 
of  mock  indignation. 

"  But  I'm  not  going  to  paint  dogs,"  he  replied, 
with  some  impatience.  "  I  am  going  to  paint  women, 
like  the  Sir  Peter  Lely  that  Uncle  John  Tilghman 
has.  Oh,  she's  a  beauty!  I  took  Mr.  Crocker  to  see 
her  the  other  day.  It  had  just  been  brought  in  from 
the  country,  you  know.  You  should  have  heard  him 
go  on.  He  says  there's  nobody  who  can  paint  a  por 
trait  like  it  nowadays.  He  raved  about  her.  You 
know  it  is  Uncle  John  Tilghman's  grandmother  when 

37 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

she  was  a  girl."  His  voice  suddenly  dropped  to  a 
more  serious  tone  as  he  imparted  this  last  bit  of 
information. 

Miss  Clendenning  knew  whose  grandmother  it  was, 
and  knew  and  loved  every  tone  in  the  canvas.  It 
had  hung  in  the  Tilghman  Manor-House  for  years 
and  was  one  of  its  most  precious  treasures,  but  she 
did  not  intend  to  stop  and  discuss  it  now. 

"  Mr.  Crocker  wants  me  to  copy  it  just  as  soon 
as  I  draw  a  little  better.  Uncle  John  will  let  me, 
I  know." 

Miss  Clendenning  tapped  her  foot  in  a  noiseless 
tattoo  upon  the  stool,  and  for  a  time  looked  off  int<i 
space.  She  wanted  to  draw  him  out,  to  know  from 
what  depth  this  particular  enthusiasm  had  sprung. 
Ske  was  accustomed  to  his  exuberance  of  spirits,  it 
was  one  of  the  many  things  she  loved  him  for.  If 
this  new  craze  were  but  an  idle  fancy,  and  he  had 
had  many  of  them,  it  would  wear  itself  out,  and  the 
longer  they  talked  about  it  the  better.  If,  however, 
it  sprang  from  an  inborn  taste,  and  was  the  first  indi 
cation  of  a  hitherto  undeveloped  talent  forcing  it 
self  to  the  surface,  the  situation  was  one  demanding 
the  greatest  caution.  Twigs  like  Oliver  bent  at  the 
wrong  time  might  never  straighten  out  again. 

"  And  why  did  you  come  to  me  about  this,  Ollie ; 
why  don't  you  talk  to  your  father?  " 

"  I  have.  He  doesn't  object.  He  says  that  Mr. 
38 


STKAINS  FEOM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

Crocker  is  one  of  the  rare  men  of  the  time,  and  that 
only  inexperience  among  the  people  here  prevents 
him  from  being  appreciated.  That's  what  he  goes 
to  see  him  for.  It  isn't  father  that  worries  me,  it's 
mother.  I  know  just  what  she'll  say.  She's  got  her 
heart  set  on  my  studying  law,  and  she  won't  listen 
to  anything  else.  I  wouldn't  object  to  the  law  if  I 
cared  for  it,  but  I  don't.  That's  what  makes  it  come 
so  hard." 

"  And  you  want  me  to  speak  to  your  mother?  " 
"  Yes,  of  course.  That's  just  what  I  do  want  you 
to  do.  Nobody  can  help  me  but  you,"  he  cried  with 
that  coaxing  manner  which  would  have  seemed 
effeminate  until  one  looked  at  his  well-built,  muscu 
lar  body  and  the  firm  lines  about  his  mouth.  "  You 
tell  her  of  all  the  painters  you  knew  in  London  when 
you  lived  there,  and  of  what  they  do  and  how  they 
are  looked  up  to,  and  that  some  of  them  are  gentle 
men  and  not  idlers  and  loafers.  Mother  will  listen 
to  you,  I  know,  and  maybe  then  when  I  tell  her  it 
won't  be  such  a  shock  to  her.  Do  you  know  it  is 
incomprehensible  to  me,  all  this  contempt  for  people 
who  don't  do  just  the  same  things  that  their  grand 
fathers  did.  And  how  do  I  know,  too,  that  they  are 
right  about  it  all?  It  seems  to  me  that  when  a  man 
is  born  a  gentleman  and  is  a  gentleman  he  can  follow 
any  occupation  he  pleases.  Instead  of  his  trade  mak 
ing  him  respectable  he  should  make  it  so."  He  spoke 

39 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

with  a  virility  she  had  never  suspected  in  him  before, 
this  boy  whom  she  had  held  in  her  arms  as  a  baby 
and  who  was  still  only  the  child  to  her. 

"  But,  Ollie,"  she  interrupted,  in  some  surprise, 
"  you  must  never  forget  that  you  are  your  father's 
son.  Xo  one  is  absolutely  independent  in  this  world; 
everyone  has  his  family  to  consider."  She  was  be 
coming  not  only  interested  now,  but  anxious.  Mr. 
Crocker  had  evidently  been  teaching  the  boy  some 
thing  besides  the  way  to  use  his  pencil.  Such  demo 
cratic  ideas  were  rare  in  Kennedy  Square. 

"  Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean."  He  had  sprung 
from  his  seat  now  and  was  standing  over  her,  she 
looking  up  into  his  face.  "  You  mean  that  it  is  all 
right  for  me  to  go  into  old  Mr.  Wardell's  counting- 
house  because  he  sells  coffee  by  the  cargo,  but  that 
I  can't  take  a  situation  in  Griggson's  grocery  here  on 
the  corner  because  he  sells  coffee  by  the  pound.  You 
mean,  too,  that  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  be  a  pro 
fessor  or  president  of  a  college  and  still  be  a  gentle 
man,  but  if  he  teaches  in  the  public  school  he  is 
done  for.  You  mean,  too,  that  I  could  saw  off  a 
patient's  leg  and  still  be  invited  to  Uncle  Tilghman's 
house  to  dinner,  but  that  if  I  pulled  out  one  of  his 
teeth  I  could  only  eat  in  his  kitchen." 

Miss  Clendenning  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed 
until  the  combs  in  her  side-curls  needed  refastening, 
but  she  did  not  interrupt  him. 

40 


STRAINS  FROM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

"  I  can't  get  this  sort  of  thing  into  my  head  and 
I  never  will.  And  father  doesn't  believe  in  it  any 
more  than  I  do,  and  I  don't  think  that  mother  would 
if  it  wasn't  for  a  lot  of  old  people  who  live  around 
this  square  and  who  talk  of  nothing  all  day  but  their 
relations  and  think  there's  nobody  worth  knowing 
but  themselves.  Now,  you've  got  to  talk  to  mother; 
I  won't  take  no  for  an  answer,"  and  he  threw  him 
self  down  beside  her  again.  "  Come,  dear  Midget, 
hold  up  your  right  hand  and  promise  me  now,  be- 
afore  I  let  you  go,"  he  pleaded  in  his  wheedling 
way  that  made  him  so  lovable  to  his  intimates, 
catching  her  two  hands  in  his  and  'holding  them 
tight. 

Of  course  she  promised.  .  Had  she  ever  refused 
him  anything?  And  Oliver,  a  boy  again,  now  that 
his  confessions  were  made,  kissed  her  joyously  on 
both  cheeks  and  instantly  forgetting  his  troubles  as 
his  habit  was  when  prospects  of  relief  had  opened, 
he  launched  out  into  an  account  of  a  wonderful  ad 
venture  Mr.  Crocker  once  had  in  an  old  town  in 
Italy,  where  he  was  locked  up  over-night  in  a  con 
vent  by  mistake;  and  how  he  had  slept  on  his  knap 
sack  in  the  chapel,  and  what  the  magistrate  had  said 
to  him  the  next  day,  and  how  he  had  to  paint  a  por 
trait  of  that  suspicious  officer  to  prove  he  was  a 
painter  and  a  man  of  the  best  intentions.  In  his 
enthusiasm  he  not  only  acted  the  scene,  but  he  imi- 

41 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

tated  the  gesture  and  dialect  of  the  several  parties  to 
the  escapade  so  perfectly  that  the  little  lady,  in  her 
delight  over  the  story,  quite  forgot  her  anxiety  and 
even  the  musicale  itself,  and  only  remembered  the 
quartette  when  Malachi,  bowing  obsequiously  before 
her,  said: 

"  Dey's  a-waitin'  for  you,  Miss  Lavinia.  Mister 
Unger  done  come  and  Marse  Richard  say  he  can't 
wait  a  minute." 

When  she  and  Oliver  entered  the  drawing-room 
the  'cellist  was  the  centre  of  the  group.  He  was 
stripping  off  the  green  baize  cover  from  his  instru 
ment  and  at  the  same  time  was  apologizing,  in  his 
broken  English,  for  being  so  late.  Richard  was  in 
terrupting  him  with  enthusiastic  outbursts  over  the 
new  score  which  still  lay  under  the  wax  candles  light 
ing  the  piano,  and  which  he  and  Nathan,  while  wait 
ing  for  the  musician,  had  been  silently  practising  in 
sundry  bobs  of  their  heads  and  rhythmic  beatings  of 
their  hands. 

"  My  dear  Max,"  Richard  continued,  with  a  hand 
on  the  musician's  shoulder,  patting  him  in  apprecia 
tion  as  he  spoke,  "  we  will  forgive  you  anything. 
You  have  so  exactly  suited  to  the  'cello  the  opening 
theme.  And  the  flute  passages ! — they  are  exquisitely 
introduced.  We  will  let  Miss  Clendenning  decide 
when  she  hears  it — "  and  he  turned  Unger's  head  in 
the  direction  of  the  advancing  lady.  "  Here 

42 


STRAINS  FKOM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

comes  now;  you,  of  course,  know  the  fine  quality 
of  Miss  Clendenning's  ear." 

Herr  Unger  placed  his  five  fat  fingers  over  his 
waist-band/ bo  wed  as  low  to  Miss  Lavinia  as  his  great 
girth  would  permit,  and  said: 

"  Ah;  yes,  I  know.  Miss  Clendenning  not  only 
haf  de  ear,  she  haf  de  life  in  de  end  of  de  finger.  De 
piano  make  de  sound  like  de  bird  when  she  touch 
it." 

The  little  lady  thanked  him  in  her  sweetest  voice, 
made  a  courtesy,  and  extended  her  hand  to  Max,  who 
Kissed  it  with  much  solemnity,  and  Richard,  putting 
his  arm  around  the  'cellist's  fat  shoulders,  conducted 
him  across  the  room,  whereupon  Nathan,  with  the 
assumed  air  of  an  old  beau,  offered  his  crooked  elbow 
to  Miss  Clendenning  as  an  apology  for  having  reached 
the  house  before  her.  Then,  seating  her  at  the  piano 
with  a  great  flourish,  he  waved  his  hand  to  Oliver, 
who  had  drawn  up  a  chair  beside  his  mother,  and  with 
a  laugh,  cried: 

"  Here,  you  young  lover,  come  and  turn  the  leaves 
for  Miss  Lavinia.  It  may  keep  you  from  running 
over  other  people  in  the  dark,  even  if  they  are  accused 
of  hiding  behind  sun-dials." 

"With  the  beginning  of  the  overture  Mrs,  Horn  laid 
down  her  work,  and  drawing  her  white  gossamer 
shawl  about  her  shoulders  gave  herself  up  to  the  en 
joyment  of  the  music.  The  overture  was  one  of  her 

43 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

favorites — one  she  and  Richard  had  often  played 
together  as  a  duet  in  their  younger  days. 

Leaning  back  in  her  easy-chair  with  half-closed 
eyes,  her  clear-cut  features  in  silhouette  against  the 
glow  of  the  fire,  her  soft  gray  curls  nestling  in  the 
filmy  lace  that  fell  about  her  temples,  she  expressed, 
in  every  line  of  her  face  and  figure,  that  air  of  grace 
ful  repose  which  only  comes  to  those  highly  favored 
women  who  have  all  their  lives  been  nurtured  in  a 
home  of  loving  hands,  tender  voices,  and  noiseless 
servants — lives  of  never-ending  affection  without 
care  or  sorrow. 

And  yet  had  you,  even  as  she  sat  there,  studied 
carefully  this  central  figure  of  the  Horn  man 
sion — this  practical,  outspoken,  gentle-voiced,  tender 
wife  and  mother,  tenacious  of  her  opinions,  yet  big 
enough  and  courageous  enough  to  acknowledge  her 
mistakes;  this  woman,  wise  in  counsel,  sympathetic 
in  sorrow,  joyous  with  the  young,  restful  with  the 
old,  you  would  have  discovered  certain  lines  about 
her  white  forehead  which  advancing  years  alone 
could  not  have  accounted  for. 

These  lines  seemed  all  the  deeper  to-night.  Only 
a  few  hours  before,  Richard  had  come  to  her,  while 
Malachi  was  arranging  his  clothes,  with  the  joyful 
news  of  a  new  device  which  he  had  developed  during 
the  day  for  his  motor.  He  could  hardly  wait  to 
toll  her,  he  had  said.  The  news  was  anything  but 

4* 


STRAINS  FROM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

joyful  to  her.  She  knew  what  it  meant — she  knew 
what  sums  had  been  wasted  on  the  other  devices,  in 
volving  losses  which  at  this  time  they  could  so  lit 
tle  afford.  She  was  glad,  therefore,  to  free  her  mind 
for  the  moment  from  these  anxieties;  glad  to  sit 
alone  and  drink  in  the  melodies  that  the  quartette 
set  free. 

As  she  sat  listening,  beating  time  noiselessly  with 
her  thin,  upraised  hand,  her  head  resting  quietly,  a 
clear,  silvery  note — clear  as  a  bird's — leaped  from 
Nathan's  flute,  soared  higher  and  higher,  trembled 
*like  a  lark  poised  in  air,  and  died  away  in  tones  of 
such  exquisite  sweetness  that  she  turned  her  head  in 
delight  toward  the  group  about  the  piano,  fixing  her 
gaze  on  Nathan.  The  old  man's  eyes  were  riveted  on 
the  score,  his  figure  bent  forward  in  the  intensity  of 
his  absorption,  his  whole  face  illumined  with  the 
ecstasy  that  possessed  him.  Then  she  looked  at 
Richard,  standing  with  his  back  to  her,  his  violin 
tucked  under  his  chin,  his  body  swaying  in  rhythm 
with  the  music,  linger  sat  next  to  him,  his  instru 
ment  between  his  knees,  his  stolid,  shiny  face  un 
ruffled  by  the  glorious  harmonies  of  Beethoven. 

Then  her  glance  rested  on  Oliver.  He  was  hang 
ing  over  the  piano  whispering  in  Miss  Clendenning's 
ear,  his  face  breaking  into  smiles  at  her  playful  chid- 
ings.  If  the  pathos  of  the  melody  had  reached  him 
he  showed  no  sign  of  its  effects. 

45 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Instantly  there  welled  up  in  her  heart  a  sudden 
gush  of  tenderness — one  of  those  quick  outbursts 
that  often  overwhelm  a  mother  when  her  eyes  rest 
on  a  son  whose  heart  is  her  own — an  outburst  all  the 
more  intensified  by  the  melody  that  thrilled  her. 
Why  should  her  heart  have  been  troubled?  Here 
was  her  strong  hope!  Here  was  her  chief  reliance! 
Here  the  hope  of  the  future.  How  could  she  doubt 
or  suffer  when  this  promise  of  the  coming  day  was 
before  her  in  all  the  beauty  and  strength  of  his  young 
manhood. 

With  the  echoes  of  Kathan's  flute  still  vibrating 
in  her,  and  with  her  mind  filled  with  the  delight  of 
these  fresh  hopes,  she  suddenly  recalled  the  anxious 
look  on  her  boy's  face  as  he  led  Miss  Clendenning 
into  the  library — a  new  look — one  she  had  never 
seen  before.  Still  under  the  quickening  spell  of  the 
music  she  began  to  exaggerate  its  cause.  What  had 
troubled  him?  Why  had  he  told  Lavinia,  and  not 
her?  Was  there  anything  serious? — something  he 
had  kept  from  her  to  save  her  pain? 

From  this  moment  her  mind  became  absorbed  in 
her  boy.  With  restless,  impatient  fingers  she  began 
thrumming  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  Oliver  would 
tell  her,  she  knew,  before  many  hours,  but  she  could 
not  wait — she  wanted  to  know  at  once. 

With  the  ending  of  the  first  part  of  the  overture, 
iind  before  the  two  gentlemen  had  laid  down  their 

46 


STRAINS  FROM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

instruments  to  grasp  Unger's  hands,  she  called  to 
Miss  Clendenning,  who  sat  at  the  piano  alone,  Oliver 
having  slipped  away  unobserved. 

"  Lavinia " 

Miss  Clendenning  raised  her  eyes  in  answer. 
"  Come  over  and  sit  by  me,  dear,  while  the  gentle 
men  rest." 

Miss  Clendenning  picked  up  her  white  silk  mits 
and  fan  lying  beside  the  candles,  and  moved  toward 
the  fireplace.  Malachi  saw  her  coming — he  was  al 
ways  in  the  room  during  the  interludes — and  with 
an  alacrity  common  to  him  when  the  distinguished 
little  lady  was  present,  drew  up  a  low  chair  beside 
his  mistress  and  stood  behind  it  until  she  took  her 
seat.  Miss  Clendenning  smoothed  out  her  skirt  and 
settled  herself  with  the  movement  of  a  pigeon  filling 
her  nest.  Then  she  laid  her  mits  in  her  lap  and 
fanned  herself  softly. 

"  "Well,  Sallie,  what  is  it?  Did  you  ever  hear 
Nathan  play  so  well? "  she  asked,  at  last. 

"  What  did  Oliver  want,  my  dear? "  replied  Mrs. 
Horn,  ignoring  her  question.  k<  Is  there  anything 
worrying  him,  or  is  Sue  at  the  bottom  of  it?  " 

The  little  woman  smiled  quizzically.  "  No,  Sallie 
— not  Sue — not  this  time.  That  little  rattle-brain's 
affections  will  only  last  the  week  out.  Nothing  very 
important — that  is,  nothing  urgent.  We  were  talk 
ing  about  the  Tilghman  portraits  and  the  Lely 

47 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVEE  HORN 

that  Cousin  John  has  brought  into  town  from  Clay 
more  Manor,  and  what  people  should  and  should  noi 
do  to  earn  their  living,  and  what  professions  were 
respectable.  I  thought  one  thing  and  Ollie  thought 
another.  Now,  what  profession  of  all  others  would 
you  choose  for  a  young  man  starting  out  in  life  ? " 

"What  has  he  been  telling  you,  Lavinia?  Does 
he  want  to  leave  Judge  Ellicott's  office  ?  "  Mrs.  Horn 
asked,  quietly.  She  always  went  straight  to  the  root 
of  any  matter. 

"  Just  answer  my  question,  Sallie." 

"  I'd  rather  he'd  be  a  lawyer,  of  course;   why?  " 

"  Suppose  he  won't,  or  can't?  " 

"  Is  that  what  he  told  you,  Lavinia,  on  the  sofa?  " 
She  was  leaning  forward,  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  blazing  logs. 

"  He  told  me  a  great  many  things,  half  of  them 
boy's  talk.  Now  answer  my  question;  suppose  he 
couldn't  study  law  because  his  heart  wasn't  in  it, 
what  then?" 

"  I  know,  Lavinia,  what  you  mean."  There  was 
an  anxious  tone  now  in  the  mother's  voice.  "  And 
Oliver  talked  to  you  about  this?  "  As  she  spoke  she 
settled  back  in  her  chair  and  a  slight  sigh  escaped 
her. 

"  Don't  ask  me,  Sallie,  for  I'm  not  going  to  tell 
you.  I  want  to  know  for  myself  what  you  think,  so 
that  I  can  help  the  boy." 

48 


STRAINS  FROM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

Mrs.  Horn  turned  her  head  and  looked  toward 
Richard.  She  had  suspected  as  much  from  some  hints 
that  Judge  Ellicott  had  dropped  when  she  had  asked 
him  about  Oliver's  progress.  "  He  is  still  holding 
down  his  chair,  Madam."  She  thought  at  the  time 
that  it  was  one  of  the  Judge's  witticisms,  but  she  saw 
now  that  it  had  a  deeper  meaning.  After  some  mo 
ments  she  said,  fixing  her  eyes  on  Miss  Clendenning : 

"  Well,  now,  Lavinia,  tell  me  what  you  think.  I 
should  like  your  opinion.  What  would  you  wish 
to  do  with  him  if  he  were  your  son?  " 

Miss  Lavinia  smiled  and  her  eyes  half -closed.  For 
a  brief  moment  there  came  to  her  the  picture  of 
what  such  a  blessing  would  have  been.  Her  son! 
No !  It  was  always  somebody  else's  son  or  daughter 
to  whom  her  sympathy  must  go. 

"  Well,  Sallie,"  she  answered — she  was  leaning 
over  now,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  apparently  with  low 
ered  eyelids,  but  really  watching  Mrs.  Horn's  face 
from  the  corner  of  her  eye — "  I  don't  think  we  can 
make  a  clergyman  out  of  him,  do  you?  "  Mrs.  Horn 
frowned,  but  she  did  not  interrupt.  "  No,  we  can 
not  make  a  parson  out  of  him.  I  meant,  my  love, 
something  in  surplices,  not  in  camp-meetings,  of 
course.  Think  of  those  lovely  pink  cheeks  in  a  high 
collar  and  Bishop's  sleeves,  wouldn't  he  be  too  sweet 
for  anything?  "  and  she  laughed  one  of  her  little  coo 
ing  laughs.  "  Nor  a  doctor,"  she  continued,  with 

49 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

a  slight  interrogation  in  her  tone,  "  nor  a  shop 
keeper,  nor  a  painter  " — and  she  shot  a  quick  glance 
from  under  her  arching  eyebrows  at  her  companion 
• — but  Mrs.  Horn's  face  gave  no  sign — "  nor  a  musi 
cian.  Why  not  a  musician,  Sallie,  he  sings  like  an 
angel,  you  know?  "  She  was  planting  her  shafts  all 
about  the  target,  her  eyes  following  the  flight  of  each 
irrow. 

Mrs.  Horn  raised  her  head  and  laid  her  hand 
firmly  on  Miss  Clendenning's  wrist. 

"  We  won't  have  him  a  shopkeeper,  Lavinia,"  she 
said  with  some  positiveness,  "  nor  a  barber,  nor  a 
painter,  nor  a  cook,  nor  a  dentist.  We'll  try  and 
keep  him  a  gentleman,  my  dear,  whatever  happens. 
As  for  his  being  a  musician,  I  think  you  will  agree 
with  me,  that  music  is  only  possible  as  an  accomplish 
ment,  never  when  it  is  a  profession.  Look  at  that 
dear  old  man  over  there  " — and  she  pointed  to  Na 
than,  who  was  bending  forward  running  over  on  his 
flute  some  passages  from  the  score,  his  white  hair 
covering  his  coat-collar  behind — "  so  absolutely  un 
fitted  for  this  world  as  he  is,  so  purposeless,  so  hope 
lessly  inert.  He  breathes  his  whole  soul  into  that 
flute  and  yet " 

"  And  a  good  deal  conies  out  of  it  sometimes,  my 
dear — to-night,  for  instance,"  laughed  Miss  Lavinia. 
"  Did  you  catch  those  bird-like  notes  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  they  thrilled  me  through  and  through, 
50 


STRAINS  FROM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

but  sweet  as  they  are  they  haven't  helped  him  make 
a  career." 

At  this  moment  Richard  called  to  linger,  who  had 
been  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  the  library,  "  cooling  off," 
he  said,  as  he  mopped  his  head  with  a  red  handker- 
clief,  one  of  Malachi's  cups  in  his  hand. 

Miss  Lavinia  caught  sight  of  the  'cellist's  advanc 
ing  figure  and  rose  from  her  seat.  "  I  must  go  now," 
she  said,  "  they  want  to  play  it  again."  She  moved 
a  step  forward,  gave  a  glance  at  her  side-curls  in  the 
oval  mirror  over  the  mantel,  stopped  hesitatingly, 
and  then  bending  over  Mrs.  Horn  said,  thoughtfully, 
her  hand  on  her  companion's  shoulder,  "  Sallie,  don't 
try  to  make  water  run  uphill.  If  Ollie  belonged  to 
me  I'd  let  him  follow  his  tastes,  whatever  they  were. 
You'll  spoil  the  shape  of  his  instep  if  you  keep  him 
wearing  Chinese  shoes,"  and  she  floated  over  to  join 
the  group  of  musicians. 

Mrs.  Horn  again  settled  herself  in  her  chair.  She 
understood  now  the  look  on  Oliver's  face.  She  was 
right  then ;  something  was  really  worrying  him.  The 
talk  with  Miss  Lavinia  had  greatly  disturbed  her — 
so  much  so  that  she  could  not  listen  to  the  music. 
Again  her  eyes  rested  on  Oliver,  who  had  come  in 
and  joined  the  group  at  the  piano,  all  out  of  breath 
with  his  second  run  across  the  Square — this  time  to 
tell  Sue  of  Miss  Clendenning's  promise.  He  was 
never  happy  unless  he  was  sharing  what  was  on  his 

51 


THE  FOETUSES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

mind  with  another,  and  if  there  was  a  girl  within 
reach  he  was  sure  to  pour  it  into  her  willing  ears. 

Mrs.  Horn  looked  at  him  with  a  pang  about  her 
heart.  From  which  side  of  the  house  had  come  this 
fickleness,  this  instability  and  love  of  change  in 
Oliver's  character?  she  asked  herself — a  new  inter 
est  every  day — all  the  traditions  of  his  forefathers 
violated.  How  could  she  overcome  it  in  him?  how 
make  him  more  practical?  Years  before,  when  she 
had  thought  him  proud,  she  had  sent  him  to  market 
and  had  made  him  carry  home  the  basket  on  his  arm, 
facing  the  boys  who  laughed  at  him.  He  had  never 
forgotten  the  lesson;  he  was  neither  proud  nor  lazy 
any  more.  But  what  could  she  do  in  a  situation  like 
this? 

Harassed  by  these  doubts  her  eyes  wandered  over 
Oliver's  slender,  well-knit  muscular  figure  as  he  stood 
whispering  to  Miss  Clendenning.  She  noticed  the 
fine,  glossy  hair  brushed  from  the  face  and  worn  long 
in  the  neck,  curling  behind  the  ears.  She  noted 
<every  movement  of  his  body:  the  graceful  way  in 
which  he  talked  with  his  hands,  using  his  fingers  to 
accentuate  his  words,  and  the  way  in  which  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders — the  shrug  of  a  Frenchman, 
although  not  a  drop  of  their  blood  could  be  found  in 
his  veins — and  in  the  quick  lifting  of  the  hand  and 
the  sidelong  glance  of  the  eye,  all  so  characteristic 
of  Richard  when  some  new  thought  or  theory  reached 

52 


STRAINS  FROM  NATHAN'S  FLUTE 

his  brain  for  the  first  time.  Gradually  and  uncon« 
sciously  she  began  to  compare  each  feature  of  Oliver's 
face  with  that  of  the  father  who  stood  beside  him: 
the  alert  blue  eyes,  overhanging  brow  and  soft  silki- 
riess  of  the  hair — identically  the  same,  even  the  way 
it  lay  in  the  neck.  And  again  she  looked  at  Richard, 
drawing  the  bow  as  if  in  a  dream. 

Instantly  a  thought  entered  her  mind  that  drove 
the  blood  from  her  cheeks.  These  vacillations  of 
her  husband's!  This  turning  from  one  thing  to  an 
other — first  the  law,  then  these  inventions  that  never 
l£ad  anywhere,  and  now  Oliver  beginning  in  the 
same  way,  almost  in  the  same  steps!  Could  these 
traits  be  handed  down  to  the  children?  Would  Oli 
ver  be  like  Richard  in 

Instinctively  she  stopped  short  before  the  disloyal 
thought  could  form  itself  in  her  brain,  straightened 
herself  in  her  chair,  and  closed  her  lips  tight. 

The  music  ceased;  Nathan  laid  his  flute  on  the 
piano ;  Unger  rose  from  his  seat,  and  Richard  turned 
to  talk  to  Miss  Clendenning.  But  she  was  unmindful 
of  it  all — she  still  sat  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  searching 
the  blazing  logs,  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

Only  Malachi  with  his  silver  tray  recalled  her  to 
consciousness. 


CHAPTER  HI 

THE    OPEN-AIR    DRAWING-ROOMS    OF    KENNEDY    SQUARE 

If  in  the  long  summer  days  Kennedy  Square  was 
haunted  by  the  idle  and  the  weary,  in  the  cool  sum 
mer  nights  its  dimly  lighted  paths  were  alive  with 
the  tread  of  flying  feet,  and  its  shadowy  benches  gay 
with  the  music  of  laughter  and  merry  greetings. 

With  the  going  down  of  the  sun,  the  sidewalks  were 
sprinkled,  and  the  whole  street  about  the  Square 
watered  from  curb  to  curb,  to  cool  its  sun-baked 
cobbles.  The  doors  and  windows  of  all  the  houses 
were  thrown  wide  to  welcome  the  fresh  night-air, 
laden  with  the  perfume  of  magnolia,  jasmine,  and 
sweet-smelling  box.  Easy-chairs  and  cushions  were 
brought  out  and  placed  on  the  clean  steps  of  the 
porches,  and  the  wide  piazzas  covered  with  squares  of 
china-matting  to  make  ready  for  the  guests  of  the 
evening. 

These  guests  would  begin  to  gather  as  soon  as  the 
twilight  settled;  the  young  girls  in  their  pretty  mus 
lin  frocks  and  ribbons,  the  young  men  in  white  duck 
suits  and  straw  hats.  They  thronged  the  cool,  well- 
swept  paths,  chattered  in  bunches  under  the  big 
trees,  or  settled  like  birds  on  the  stone  seats  and 

54 


DBA  WING-BOOMS  OF   KENNEDY  SQUARE 

benches.  Every  few  minutes  some  new  group,  fresh 
from  their  tea-tables,  would  emerge  from  one  of  tha 
houses,  poise  like  a  flock  of  pigeons  on  the  top  step, 
listen  to  the  guiding  sound  of  the  distant  laughter, 
and  then  swoop  down  in  mad  frolic,  settling  in  the 
midst  of  the  main  covey,  under  the  big  sycamores 
until  roused  at  the  signal  of  some  male  bird  in  a 
straw  hat,  or  in  answer  to  the  call  of  some  bare-headed 
songstress  from  across  the  Square,  the  whole  covjy 
would  dash  out  one  of  the  rickety  gates,  only  to  alight 
qgain  on  the  stone  steps  of  a  neighbor's  porch,  where 
their  chatter  and  pipings  would  last  far  into  the  night. 
It  was  extraordinary  how,  from  year  to  year,  these 
young  birds  and  even  the  old  ones  remembered  the 
best  perches  about  the  Square.  On  Colonel  Clay 
ton's  ample  portico — big  enough  to  shelter  half  a 
dozen  covies  behind  its  honeysuckles — both  youn$ 
and  old  would  settle  side  by  side ;  the  younger  bevy 
hovering  about  the  Judge's  blue-eyed  daughter — a 
bird  so  blithe  and  of  so  free  a  wing,  that  the  flock 
always  followed  wherever  she  alighted.  On  Judge 
Bowman's  wide  veranda  only  a  few  old  cocks  from 
the  club  could  be  found,  and  not  infrequently,  some 
rare  birds  from  out  of  town  perched  about  a  table 
alive  with  the  clink  of  glass  and  rattle  of  crushed  ice, 
while  next  the  church,  on  old  Mrs.  Pancoast's  por 
tico,  with  its  tall  Corinthian  columns — Mr.  Pancoast 
was  the  archdeacon  of  the  Xoah's  ark  church — one 

55 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

or  two  old  grandmothers  and  a  grave  old  owl  of  a 
family  doctor  were  sure  to  fill  the  rocking-chairs. 
As  for  Richard  Horn's  marble  steps  they  were  never 
free  from  stray  young  c'ouples  who  flew  in  to  rest  on 
Malachi's  chairs  and  cushions.  Sometimes  only  one 
bird  and  her  mate  would  be  tucked  away  in  the 
shadow  of  the  doorway;  sometimes  only  an  old  pair, 
like  Mrs.  Horn  and  Richard,  would  occupy  its  cor 
ners. 

These  porticoes  and  stone  door-steps  were  really 
the  open-air  drawing-rooms  of  Kennedy  Square  in 
the  soft  summer  nights.  Here  ices  were  served  and 
200!  drinks — sherbets  for  the  young  and  juleps  and 
sherry  cobblers  for  the  old.  At  the  Horn  house,  OB 
great  occasions,  as  when  some  big  melon  that  had  lain 
for  days  on  the  cool  cellar  floor  was  cut  (it  was  worth 
A  day's  journey  to  see  Malachi  cut  a  melon),  the 
guests  would  not  only  crowd  the  steps,  but  all  the  hall 
ind  half  up  the  slender  staircase,  where  they  would 
jit  with  plates  in  their  laps,  the  young  men  serving 
their  respective  sweethearts. 

This  open-air  night-life  had  gone  on  since  Ken 
nedy  Square  began;  each  door-step  had  its  habitues 
and  each  veranda  its  traditions.  There  was  but  one 
single  porch,  in  fact,  facing  its  stately  trees  whereon 
no  flocks  of  birds,  old  or  young,  ever  alighted,  and 
that  belonged  to  Peter  Skimmerton — the  meanest 
man  in  town — who  in  a  fit  of  parsimony  over  candles, 

56 


DRAWING-ROOMS  OF  KENNEDY  SQUAEE 

so  the  girls  said,  had  bared  his  porch  of  every  pro 
tecting  vine  and  had  placed  opposite  his  door-step  a 
glaring  street  gas-lamp — a  monstrous  and  never-to- 
be-forgotten  affront. 

And  yet,  free  and  easy  as  the  life  was,  no  stranger 
sat  himself  down  on  any  one  of  these  porches  until 
his  pedigree  had  been  thoroughly  investigated,  no 
matter  how  large  might  be  his  bank-account  nor  how 
ambitious  his  soarings.  Xo  premeditated  discourtesy 
ever^  initialed  this  exclusiveness  and  none  was  ever 
intended.  Kennedy  Square  did  not  know  the  blood 
of  the  stranger — that  was  all — and  not  knowing  it 
they  could  not  trust  him.  And  it  would  have  been  al 
together  useless  for  him  to  try  to  disguise  his  antece- 
ients — especially  if  he  came  from  their  own  State — 
ir  any  State  south  of  it.  His  record  could  be  as 
vasily  reached  and  could  be  as  clearly  read  as  a  title- 
d^ed.  Even  the  servants  knew.  Often  they  acted  as 
Clerks  of  the  Rolls. 

"'  Dat  Mister  Jawlms,  did  you  ask  'bout? "  Mala- 
chi  ^ould  say.  "  Why  you  know  whar  he  comes  f'om. 
He's  one  o'  dem  Anne  Kundle  Jawlinses.  He  do  look 
mighty  peart  an'  dey  do  say  he's  mighty  rich,  but 
lie  can't  fool  Malachi.  I  knowed  his  gran'pa,"  and 
that  wise  and  politic  darky,  with  the  honor  of  the 
house  before  his  eyes,  would  shake  his  head  know- 
xiigly  and  with  such  an  ominous  look,  that  had  you 
not  known  the  only  crime  of  the  poor  grandfather  to 

5? 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

have  been  a  marriage  with  his  overseer's  daughter— 
a  very  worthy  woman,  oy  the  way — instead  of  with 
some  lady  of  quality,  you  would  have  supposed  he 
had  added  the  sin  of  murder  to  the  crime  of  low 
birth.  On  the  other  hand,  had  you  asked  Malachi 
about  some  young  aristocrat  who  had  forgotten  to 
count  his  toddies  the  night  before,  that  Defender  of 
the  Faith  would  have  replied: 

"  Lawd  bress  ye!  Co'se  dese  young  gemmens  like 
to  frolic — an'  dey  do  git  dat  way  sometimes — tain't 
nuthin'.  Dem  Dorseys  was  allers  like  dat — "  the 
very  tones  of  his  voice  carrying  such  convictions  of 
the  young  man's  respectability  that  you  would  have 
felt  safe  in  keeping  a  place  at  your  table  for  the  de 
linquent,  despite  your  knowledge  of  his  habits. 

This  general  intimacy  between  the  young  people, 
and  this  absolute  faith  of  their  elders  in  the  quality 
of  family  blood,  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  everj 
man  about  Kennedy  Square  was  to  be  trusted  with 
every  other  man's  sister,  and  why  every  mother  gave 
the  latch-key  to  every  other  mother's  son,  and  why 
it  made  no  difference  whether  the  young  people  came 
liome  early  or  late,  so  that  they  all  came  home  when 
the  others  did.  If  there  were  love-making — and  of 
course  there  was  love-making — it  was  of  the  old- 
fkshioned,  boy-and-girl  kind,  with  keepsakes  and 
^ledges  and  long  walks  in  the  afternoons  and  whis 
pered  secrets  at  the  merry-makings.  Never  anything 

58 


DRAWING-BOOMS  OF  KENNEDY  SQUARE 

else.  Woe  betide  the  swain  who  forgot  himself  ever 
so  slightly — there  was  no  night-key  for  him  after 
that,  nor  would  any  of  the  girls  on  any  front  steps 
in  town  ever  look  his  way  again  when  he  passed — 
and  to  their  credit  be  it  said,  few  of  the  young 
men  either.  From  that  day  on  the  offender  be 
came  a  pariah.  He  had  committed  the  unpardonable 
sin. 

As  for  these  young  men,  this  life  with  the  girls 
was  all  the  life  they  knew.  There  were  fishing  par 
ties,  of  course,  at  the  "  Falls  "  when  the  gudgeons 
v/ere  biting,  and  picnics  in  the  woods;  and  there  were 
oyster  roasts  in  winter,  and  watermelon  parties  in 
summer — but  the  girls  must  be  present,  too.  For  in 
those  simple  days  there  were  no  special  clubs  with 
easy-chairs  and  convenient  little  tables  loaded  with 
drinkables  and  smokables — none  for  the  young  Oli 
vers,  and  certainly  none  for  the  women.  There  was,, 
to  be  sure,  in  every  Southern  city  an  old  mausoleum 
of  a  club — sometimes  two — each  more  desolate  than 
the  other — haunted  by  gouty  old  parties  and  bon- 
vivants;  but  the  young  men  never  passed  through 
their  doors  except  on  some  call  of  urgency.  When 
a  man  was  old  enough  to  be  admitted  to  the  club 
there  was  no  young  damosel  on  Malachi's  steps,  or 
any  other  steps,  who  would  care  a  rap  about  him. 
His  day  was  done. 

For  these  were  the  days  in  which  the  woman  ruled 
59 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

in  court  and  home — championed  by  loyal  retainers 
who  strove  hourly  to  do  her  bidding.  Even  the  gray- 
haired  men  would  tell  you  over  their  wine  of  some 
rare  woman  whom  they  had  known  in  their  youth, 
and  who  was  still  their  standard  of  all  that  was  gentle 
and  gracious,  and  for  whom  they  would  claim  a 
charm  of  manner  and  stately  comeliness  that — "  my 
dear  sir,  not  only  illumined  her  drawing-room  but 
conferred  distinction  on  the  commonwealth." 

"  Mrs.  Tilghman's  mother,  were  you  talking 
about?  "  Colonel  Clayton  or  Richard  Horn,  or  some 
other  old  resident  would  ask.  "  I  remember  her  per 
fectly.  We  have  rarely  had  a  more  adorable  woman, 
sir.  She  was  a  vision  of  beauty,  and  the  pride  of 
our  State  for  years." 

Should  some  shadow  have  settled  upon  any  one  of 
these  homes — some  shadow  of  drunkenness,  or  love  of 
play,  or  shattered  brain,  or  worse — the  woman  bore 
the  sorrow  in  gentleness  and  patience  and  still  loved 
on  and  suffered  and  loved  and  suffered  again,  hoping 
against  hope.  But  no  dry  briefs  were  ever  per 
mitted  to  play  a  part,  dividing  heart  and  hearth. 
Kennedy  Square  would  have  looked  askance  had  such 
things  been  suggested  or  even  mentioned  in  its  pres 
ence,  and  the  dames  would  have  lowered  their  voices 
in  discussing  them.  Even  the  men  would  have  passed 
with  unlifted  hats  either  party  to  such  shame. 

Because  of  this  loyalty  to  womankind  and  this 
60 


DRAWING-ROOMS  OF  KENNEDY  SQUARE 

reverence  for  the  home — a  reverence  which  began 
with  the  mother-love  and  radiated  to  every  sistei 
they  knew — no  woman  of  quality  ever  earned  her 
own  bread  while  there  was  an  able-bodied  man  of 
her  blood  above  ground  to  earn  it  for  her.  Nor 
could  there  be  any  disgrace  so  lasting,  even  to  the 
third  and  fourth  generation,  as  the  stigma  an  out 
raged  community  would  place  upon  the  renegade  who 
refused  her  aid  and  comfort.  An  unprogressive, 
quixotic  life  if  you  will — a  life  without  growth  and 
dominant  personalities  and  lofty  responsibilities  and 
God-given  rights — but  oh !  the  sweet  mothers  that  it 
gave  us,  and  the  wholesomeness,  the  cleanliness,  the 
loyalty  of  it  all. 

"With  the  coming  of  summer,  then,  each  white  ma, 
ble  step  of  the  Horn  mansion,  under  Malachi's  care, 
shone  like  a  china  plate. 

"  Can't  hab  dese  yere  young  ladies  spile  dere 
clean  frocks  on  Malachi's  steps — no,  sah,"  he  would 
say;  "  Marse  Oliver'd  r'ar  an'  pitch  tur'ble." 

There  were  especial  reasons  this  year  for  these 
extra  touches  of  rag  and  brush.  Malachi  knew  "  de 
signs  "  too  well  to  be  deceived.  Pretty  Sue  Clayton, 
with  her  soft  eyes  and  the  mass  of  ringlets  that 
framed  her  face,  had  now  completely  taken  posses 
sion  of  Oliver's  heart,  and  the  old  servant  already 
had  been  appointed  chief  of  the  postal  service — twc 

61 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORF 

letters  a  day  sometimes  with  all  the  verbal  messages 
in  between. 

This  love-affair,  which  had  begun  in  the  winter, 
was  not  jet  of  so  serious  a  nature  as  to  cause  distress 
or  imhappiness  to  either  one  of  their  respective 
houses,  nor  had  it  reached  a  point  where  suicide  or 
an  elopement  were  all  that  was  left.  It  was,  in  truth, 
but  a  few  months  old,  and  so  far  the  banns  had  not 
been  published.  Within  the  last  week  Miss  Sue 
had  been  persuaded  "  to  wait  for  him —  '  that  was 
all.  She  had  not,  it  is  true,  burdened  her  gay  young 
heart  with  the  number  of  years  of  her  patience.  She 
and  Oliver  were  sweethearts — that  was  enough  for 
them  both.  As  proof  of  it,  was  she  not  wearing  about 
her  neck  at  the  very  moment  a  chain  which  he  had 
fashioned  for  her  out  of  cherry-stones;  and  had  she 
not  given  him  in  return  one  of  those  same  ringlets, 
and  had  she  not  tied  it  with  a  blue  ribbon  herself? 
And  above  all — and  what  could  be  more  conclusive — 
had  she  not  taken  her  hair  down  to  do  it,  and  let 
him  select  the  very  tress  that  pleased  him  best? — -and 
was  not  this  curl,  at  that  very  moment,  concealed  in 
a  pill-box  and  safely  hidden  in  his  unlocked  bureau- 
drawer,  where  his  mother  saw  it  with  a  smile  the  last 
time  she  put  away  his  linen?  This  love-affair — as 
were  the  love-affairs  of  all  the  other  young  people — 
was  common  gossip  around  Kennedy  Square.  Had 
there  been  any  doubts  about  it,  it  would  only  have 

62 


BBAWING-ROOMS  OF  KENNEDY  SQUARE 

been  necessary  to  ask  any  old  Malachi,  or  Hannah, 
or  Juno.  They  could  have  given  every  detail  of  the 
affair,  descanting  upon  all  its  joys  and  its  sorrows. 

Sweet  girls  of  the  days  gone  by,  what  crimes  some 
of  you  have  to  answer  for !  At  least  one  of  you  must 
remember  how  my  own  thumb  was  cut  into  slits  over 
these  same  cherry-stones,  and  why  the  ends  of  your 
ringlets  were  tucked  away  in  a  miniature  box  in  my 
drawer,  with  the  pressed  flowers  and  signet-ring,  and 
the  rest  of  it.  And  you  could — if  you  would — recall 
#  waiting  promise  made  to  me  years  and  years  ago. 
And  the  wedding!  Surely  you  have  not  forgotten 
that.  I  was  there,  you  remember — but  not  as  the 
groom. 

On  one  particular  evening  in  June — an  evening 
that  marked  an  important  stage  in  the  development 
of  Oliver's  f ortunes — the  front  porch,  owing  to  Mala; 
chi's  attentions,  was  in  spotless  condition — steps 
knocker,  and  round  silver  knobs. 

Sue  and  Oliver  sat  on  the  top  step;  they  had  stolen 
across  from  the  Clayton  porch  on  some  pretended 
errand.  Sue's  chin  was  in  her  hand,  and  Oliver  sat 
beside  her  pouring  »ut  his  heart  as  he  had  never 
done  before.  He  had  realized  long  ago  that  she 
could  never  understand  his  wanting  to  be  a  painter 
as  Miss  Clendenning  had  done,  and  so  he  had  never 
referred  to  it  since  the  night  of  the  musicale,  when 

63 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

he  had  raced  across  the  Square  to  tell  her  of  his  talk 
with  the  little  lady.  Sue,  as  he  remembered  after 
ward,  had  listened  abstractedly.  She  would  have 
preferred  at  the  time  his  running  in  to  talk  about 
herself  rather  than  about  his  queer  ambitions.  She 
was  no  more  interested  now. 

"  Ollie,  what  does  your  father  say  about  all  this?  " 
she  finally  asked  in  a  perfunctory  way.  "  Would  he 
be  willing  for  you  to  be  a  painter?  "  It  bored  her 
to  listen  to  Oliver's  enthusiastic  talk  about  light  and 
shade,  and  color  and  perspective,  and  what  Mr. 
Crocker  had  said  and  what  Mr.  Crocker  was  doing, 
and  what  Mr.  Crocker's  last  portrait  was  like.  She 
was  sure  that  nobody  else  around  Kennedy  Square 
talked  of  such  things  or  had  such  curious  ambitions. 
They  shocked  her  as  much  as  Oliver's  wearing  some 
outlandish  clothes  would  have  done — making  him 
conspicuous  and,  perhaps,  an  object  of  ridicule. 

"  Father's  all  right,  Sue.  He's  always  right,"  Oli 
ver  answered.  "  He  believes  in  Mr.  Crocker,  just  as 
he  believes  in  a  lot  of  things  that  a  good  many  peo- 
pie  around  here  don't  understand.  He  believes  the 
time  will  come  when  they  will  value  his  pictures, 
and  be  proud  to  own  them.  But  I  don't  care  who 
owns  mine.  I  just  want  the  fun  of  painting  them. 
Just  think  of  what  a  man  can  do  with  a  few  tubes 
of  color,  a  brush,  and  a  bit  of  canvas.  So  I  don't 
care  if  they  never  buy  ^hat  I  paint.  I  can  get  along 

64 


DRAWING-ROOMS  OF  KENNEDY  SQUARE 

somehow,  just  as  Mr.  Crocker  does.  He's  poor,  but 
just  see  how  happy  he  is.  Why,  when  he  does  a 
good  thing  he's  nothing  but  a  boy,  he's  so  glad  about 
it.  I  always  know  how  his  work  has  gone  when  I 
see  his  face." 

"  But,  Ollie,  he's  so  shabby,  and  his  daughter  gives 
music-lessons.  Nobody  thinks  of  inviting  her  any 
where."  Sue's  eyes  were  shut  tight,  with  an  expres 
sion  of  assumed  contempt,  and  her  little  nose  was 
straight  up. 

*  "  Yes — but  that  doesn't  hurt  his  pictures,  Sue." 
There  was  a  slight  trace  of  impatience  in  Oliver's 
tone. 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  doesn't — -but  you  don't  want  to 
be  like  him.  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  you,  Ollie,  going 
about  with  a  picture  under  your  arm  that  everybody 
knew  you  had  painted  yourself.  And  suppose  that 
they  would  want  to  buy  your  pictures?  How  would 
you  feel  now  to  be  taking  other  people's  money  for 
things  you  had  painted?  " 

The  boy  caught  his  breath.  It  seemed  useless  to 
pursue  the  talk  with  Sue.  She  evidently  had  no 
sympathy  with  his  aspirations. 

"  No — but  I  wish  I  could  paint  as  he  does,"  he 
answered,  mechanically. 

Sue  saw  the  change  in  his  manner.  She  realized, 
too,  that  she  had  hurt  him  in  some  way.  She  dre\v 
nearer  and  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

65 


THE  FOETUSES  OF  OLIVEE  HOEN 

"  Why,  you  can,  Ollie.  You  can  do  anything  you 
want  to;  Miss  Lavinia  told  me  so."  The  little  witch 
was  mistress  of  one  art — that  of  holding  her  lover — 
but  that  was  an  art  of  which  all  the  girls  about  Ken 
nedy  Square  approved. 

"  ISTo,  I  can't,"  he  replied,  forgetting  in  the  caress 
ing  touch  of  her  hand  the  tribute  to  his  ability, 
and  delighted  that  she  was  once  more  in  sympathy 
with  him.  "  Mother  wouldn't  think  of  my  being  an 
artist.  She  doesn't  understand  how  I  feel  about  it, 
and  Miss  Lavinia,  somehow,  doesn't  seem  to  be  favor 
able  to  it  either.  I've  talked  to  her  lots  of  times — - 
she  was  more  encouraging  at  first,  but  she  doesn't 
seem  to  like  the  idea  nowr.  I've  been  hoping  she'd 
fix  it  so  I  could  speak  to  mother  about  it.  Now  she 
tells  me  I  had  better  wait.  I  can't  see  why.  Miss 
Lavinia  knows  what  an  artist's  life  can  be,  for  she 
knew  plenty  of  painters  when  she  was  in  London  with 
her  father,  and  she  loves  pictures,  too,  and  is  a  good 
judge — nobody  here  any  better.  She  told  me  only 
a  week  ago  how  much  one  of  these  Englishmen  was 
paid  for  a  little  thing  as  big  as  your  hand,  but  I've 
forgotten  the  amount.  I  don't  see  why  I  can't  paint 
as  well  as  those  fellows.  Do  you  know,  Sue,  I'm  be 
ginning  to  think  that  about  half  the  people  in  Ken 
nedy  Square  are  asleep?  They  really  don't  seem 
to  think  there  is  anything  respectable  but  the  law.  If 
they  are  right,  how  about  all  the  men  who  painted 

66 


DRAWING-ROOMS  OF  KEXXEDY  SQUARE 

the  great  pictures  and  built  all  the  cathedrals,  or  the 
men  who  wrote  all  the  poems  and  histories?  Mother. 
of  course,  wants  me  to  be  a  lawyer.  Because  I'm 
fitted  for  it? — not  a  bit  of  it!  Simply  because  father 
was  one  before  me  and  his  father  before  him,  and 
Uncle  John  Tilghman  another,  and  so  on  back  to  the 
deluge." 

Sue  drew  away  a  little  and  turned  her  head  toward 
the  Square  as  if  in  search  of  someone.  Oliver  no 
ticed  the  movement  and  his  heart  sank  again.  He 
saw  but  too  clearly  how  little  impression  the  story  of 
his  ambitions  had  made  upon  her.  Then  the  thought 
flashed  into  his  mind  that  he  might  have  offended  her 
in  some  way,  clashing  against  her  traditions  and  her 
prejudices  as  he  had  done.  He  bent  toward  her  and 
laid  his  hand  in  hers. 

"  Little  girl,"  he  said,  in  a  softened  tone,  "  I  can't 
make  you  unhappy,  too.  Mother  is  enough  for  me 
to  worry  about — I  haven't  talked  it  all  out  to  you 
before,  but  don't  you  get  a  wrong  idea  of  what  I'm 
going  to  do —  "  and  he  looked  up  into  her  face  and 
tightened  his  hold  upon  her  fingers,  his  eyes  never 
wavering  from  her  own. 

The  girl  allowed  his  hand  to  remain  an  instant,  then 
quickly  withdrew  her  own  and  started  up.  Coyness 
is  sometimes  fear  in  the  timid  heart  that  is  stepping 
into  the  charmed  circle  for  the  first  time. 

"  There  goes  Ella  Dorsey  and  Jack — "  she  cried, 
67 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

springing  down  the  steps.  "  Ella!  El- — la!  "  and  an 
answering  halloo  came  back,  and  the  two  started  from 
Malachi's  steps  and  raced  up  the  street  to  join  thei" 
young  friends. 


AN    OLD-FASHIONED     MORTGAGE 

Pretty  Sue  Clayton  with  her  ringlets  and  rosy 
cheeks  had  not  been  Oliver's  only  listener. 

His  mother  had  been  sitting  inside  the  drawing- 
room,  just  beside  the  open  window.  She  had  spoken 
to  Sue  and  Oliver  when  they  first  mounted  the  steps, 
and  had  begged  them  both  to  come  in,  but  they  had 
forgotten  her  presence.  Unintentionally,  therefore, 
she  had  heard  every  word  of  the  conversation.  Her 
old  fears  rushed  over  her  again  with  renewed  force. 
She  had  never  for  a  moment  supposed  that  Oliver 
wanted  to  be  a  painter — like  Mr.  Crocker!  Now 
at  last  she  understood  his  real  object  in  talking  to 
Lavinia  the  night  of  the  musical. 

"  Richard,"  she  called  softly  to  her  husband  sit 
ting  in  the  adjoining  room,  in  the  chair  that  Malachi, 
in  accordance  with  the  old  custom,  had  with  his 
sweeping  bow  made  ready  for  him.  The  inventor 
had  been  there  since  tea  was  over,  lying  back  in  his 
seat,  his  head  resting  on  his  hand.  He  had  had  one 
of  his  thoughtful  days,  worrying  over  some  detail  of 
his  machine,  still  incomplete.  The  new  device  of 
which  he  had  told  her  with  such  glee  had  failed,  as 
had  the  others.  The  motor  was  still  incomplete. 

69 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  Richard,"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  he  answered,  in  his  gentle  voice. 
tLe  had  not  heard  her  at  first. 

"  Bring  your  chair  over  here." 

The  inventor  rose  instantly  and,  crossing  the  room, 
took  a  seat  beside  her,  his  hand  finding  hers  in  the 
dark. 

"  What  is  this  you  have  been  saying  to  Oliver 
'ibout  artists  being  great  men?  "  she  asked.  "  He's 
got  a  new  idea  in  his  head  now — he  wants  to  be  a 
painter.  I've  thought  for  some  time  that  Mr. 
Crocker  was  not  a  proper  person  for  him  to  be  so 
much  with.  He  has  evidently  worked  on  the  boy's 
imagination  until  he  has  determined  to  give  up  the 
law  and  study  art." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I've  just  heard  him  tell  Sue  Clayton  so.  All 
he  wants  now  is  my  consent — he  says  he  has 
yours." 

The  inventor  paused,  and  gently  smoothed  his 
wife's  fingers  with  his  own. 

"  And  you  would  not  give  it?  "  he  inquired. 

"How  could  I?  It  would  ruin  him — don't  you 
know  it  ? "  There  was  a  slight  tinge  of  annoyance 
in  her  voice — not  one  of  fault-finding,  but  rather  of 
anxiety. 

"  That  depends,  my  dear,  on  how  well  he  could 
[succeed,"  he  answered,  gently. 


AN  OLD-FASHIONED  MORTGAGE 

*'  Why,  Richard!  "  She  withdrew  her  hand  Quick 
ly  from  his  caressing  touch,  and  looked  at  him  in  un 
disguised  astonishment.  "  What  has  his  succeeding 
to  do  with  it?  Surely  you  cannot  be  in  earnest?  I 
am  willing  he  should  do  anything  to  make  his  liv 
ing,  but  not  that.  No  one  we  know  has  ever  been  a 
painter.  It  is  neither  respectable  nor  profitable. 
You  see  what  a  dreadful  existence  Mr.  Crocker  leads 
- — hardly  an  associate  in  town,  and  no  acquaintances 
for  his  daughter,  and  he's  been  painting  ever  since 
he*  was  a  boy.  Oliver  could  not  earn  a  penny  at 
such  work." 

"  Money  is  not  everything,  my  dear,  nor  social 
recognition.  There  are  many  things  I  would  value 
more." 

"  What  are  they?  "  She  was  facing  him  now,  her 
orows  knit,  a  marked  antagonism  in  her  voice. 

"  Good  manners  and  good  taste,  Sallie,  and  kindly 
consideration  for  another's  feelings,"  he  answered. 
He  spoke  calmly  and  kindly,  as  was  his  custom.  He 
had  lived  almost  all  his  life  with  this  high-strung  Sal- 
lie  Horn,  whose  eyes  flashed  now  and  then  as  they 
had  done  in  the  old  days  when  he  won  her  hand. 
He  knew  every  side  of  her  temperament.  "  Good 
manners,  and  good  taste  " — he  repeated,  as  if  wish 
ing  to  emphasize  his  thoughts — "  Oliver  has  all  of 
these,  and  he  has,  besides,  loyalty  to  his  friends.  He 
never  speaks  of  Mr.  Crocker  but  with  affection,  and 

71 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

I  love  to  hear  him.  That  man  is  an  artist  of  great 
talent,  and  yet  it  seems  to  be  the  fashion  in  this  town 
to  ridicule  him.  If  Ollie  has  any  gifts  which  would 
fit  him  to  be  a  painter,  I  should  be  delighted  to 
see  him  a  painter.  It  is  a  profession  despised  now, 
as  are  many  others,  but  it  is  the  profession  of  a  gen 
tleman,  for  all  they  say,  and  a  noble  one!  "  Then 
he  stopped  and  said,  thoughtfully,  as  if  communing 
with  himself — "  I  wish  he  could  be  a  painter.  Since 
Gilbert  Stuart's  time  we  have  had  so  few  men  of 
whom  we  can  boast.  This  country  will  one  day  be 
proud  to  honor  her  artists." 

Mrs.  Horn  sank  back  in  her  chair.  She  felt  the 
hopelessness  of  all  further  discussion  with  her  hus 
band.  "  He  would  not  have  talked  this  way  ten 
years  ago,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  Everything  has 
gone  wrong  since  he  left  the  law."  But  to  her 
husband  she  said: 

"  You  always  measure  everything  by  your  hopes.. 
Richard,  and  you  never  look  at  the  practical  side  of 
anything.  Ollie  is  old  enough  to  begin  to  think  how 
he  will  earn  his  bread.  I  see  now  how  hopeless  it 
is  for  us  to  try  and  make  a  lawyer  of  him— his  heart 
is  not  in  it.  I  have  come  little  by  little  to  the  con 
clusion  that  what  he  wants  most  is  hard  work,  and 
he  wants  it  right  away,  just  as  soon  as  we  can  find 
something  for  him  to  do — something  with  his  hands, 
if  necessary,  not  something  full  of  dreams  and  imagin- 

72 


ATsT  OLD-FASHIONED  MOKTGAGE 

ings,"  and  her  voice  rose  in  its  earnestness.  "  I  am 
getting  more  and  more  anxious  about  him  every 
day/'  she  added,  suddenly  controlling  herself,  "  and 
A'hen  you  encourage  him  in  foolish  vagaries  you  only 
make  it  harder  for  me,  dear,"  and  her  voice  softened 
and  broke  with  emotion. 

"  He  ought  to  have  gone  into  the  laboratory,  Sal- 
lie,"  Richard  added  quickly,  in  a  reflective  tone — lay 
ing  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  as  he  noticed  the  change 
of  voice — "  just  as  I  wanted  him  to  do  when  he  left 
school.  There  is  a  future  for  scientific  men  in  this 
country  which  you  do  not  see — a  future  which  few 
around  me  seem  to  see.  Great  changes  are  coming, 
not  only  in  science,  but  in  the  arts  and  in  all  useful 
knowledge.  If  Ollie  can  add  to  the  brilliancy  of  this 
future  by  becoming  a  brilliant  painter,  able  to  help 
educate  those  about  him,  there  could  be  no  higher 
calling  for  him.  Three  things  are  coming,  my  dear 
— perhaps  four."  The  inventor  had  risen  from  his 
seat  and  stood  beside  her,,  his  eyes  turned  away  into 
the  dark  as  if  he  were  addressing  some  unseen  per 
son.  "  The  superseding  of  steam,  aerial  locomotion, 
and  the  education  of  the  common  people,  black  and 
white.  One  other  may  come — the  freeing  of  the 
slaves — but  the  others  are  sure.  Science,  not  money, 
nor  family  traditions,  nor  questions  of  birth,  will 
shape  the  destinies  of  the  country.  We  may  not  live 
to  see  it,  but  Oliver  will,  and  I  want  him  to  be  where 

73 


THE  FOETUNES  OF  OLIVEK  HORN 

he  can  help  on  the  movement.  You  were  opposed  to 
his  becoming  a  scientist,  and  I  feel  assured  made  a 
mistake.  Don't  stand  in  his  way  again,  dear." 

"  Yes,  Richard,  I  was  opposed  to  it,  because  I  did 
not  want  him  to  waste  his  time  over  all  sorts  of  fool 
ish  experiments,  which  would  certainly —  She  did 
not  finish  the  sentence.  Her  anxiety  had  not  yet 
gone  as  far  as  that.  With  a  quick  gesture  she  rose 
from  her  chair,  and  drawing  her  white  gossamer 
shawl  about  her  shoulders — left  the  room  and  walked 
out  onto  the  front  steps,  followed  by  Richard. 

If  the  inventor  heard  the  thrust  he  did  not  reply. 
He  would  not  argue  with  his  wife  over  it,  nor  did  it 
check  the  flow  of  his  courtesy.  She  had  never  seen 
the  value  of  what  he  was  striving  for,  but  she  would 
in  time  he  knew. 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  is  cooler  out  here,"  was  all  he 
said,  as  he  placed  a  cushion  to  soften  her  seat  on 
the  threshold.  When  he  had  arranged  another  pil 
low  behind  her  back  and  hunted  round  the  dark  par 
lor  for  a  stool  for  her  feet,  he  found  a  chair  for 
himself  and  sat  down  beside  her.  She  thanked  him, 
but  her  thoughts  were  evidently  far  away.  She  was 
weighing  in  her  mind  what  must  be  her  next  move 
if  Oliver  persisted  in  this  new  departure.  Richard 
broke  the  silence. 

"  I  haven't  told  you  of  the  good  offer  I've  hat) 
for  the  farm,  Sallie." 

74 


AN  OLD-FASHIONED  MORTGAGE 

"  No,  but  we're  not  going  to  sell  it,  of  course." 
She  was  leaning  back  against  the  jamb  of  the  door 
as  she  spoke,  the  shawl  hanging  loose,  her  delicate 
white  hands  in  her  lap.  It  was  an  idle  answer  to 
an  idle  question,  for  her  mind  was  still  with 
Oliver. 

"  Well,  I  hadn't  thought  of  doing  so  until  to-day," 
he  answered,  slowly,  "  but  I  had  a  notice  from  the 
bank  that  they  must  call  in  the  mortgage,  and  so  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  sell  the  whole  place,  pay 
on1  the  debt,  and  use  the  balance  for — 

"  Sell  the  farm,  Richard?  "  It  was  her  hand  now 
that  sought  his,  and  with  a  firm  grasp  as  if  she  would 
restrain  him  then  and  there  in  his  purpose. 

"  Yes,  I  can  get  several  thousand  dollars  over  and 
above  the  mortgage,  and  I  need  the  money,  Sallie. 
It  will  only  be  a  temporary  matter —  '  and  he 
smoothed  her  arm  tenderly,  speaking  as  a  lover  of 
long  standing  might  do  who  is  less  absorbed  with  the 
caress  than  with  the  subject  under  discussion.  "  The 
motor  will  be  ready  in  a  few  weeks — as  soon  as  the 
new  batteries  are  finished.  Then,  my  dear,  you  won't 
have  to  curtail  your  expenses  as  you  have  done."  His 
voice  was  full  of  hope  now,  a  smile  lighting  his  face 
as  he  thought  of  all  the  pleasure  and  comfort  his 
success  would  bring  her. 

"  But  you  said  that  same  thing  when  you  were 
working  on  the  steam-valve,  for  which  you  put  that 

75 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

very  mortgage  on  the  farm,  and  now  that's  all  gone 
and " 

"  The  failure  of  the  steam-valve,  as  I  have  always 
told  you,  was  due  to  my  own  carelessness,  Sallie.  I 
should  have  patented  it  sooner.  They  are  making 
enormous  sums  on  it,  I  hear,  and  are  using  my  cut 
off,  and  I  think  dishonestly.  But  the  motor  has 
been  protected  at  every  new  step  that  T  have  taken. 
My  first  patent  of  August  13,  1856,  supersedes  all 
others,  and  cannot  be  shaken.  Now,  my  dear,  don't 
worry  about  it — you  have  never  known  me  to  fail, 
and  I  won't  now.  Besides,  you  forget  my  successes, 
Sallie — the  turbine  water-wheel  and  the  others.  It 
will  all  come  right." 

"  It  will  never  come  right."  She  had  risen  from 
her  seat  and  was  standing  over  him,  both  hands  on 
his  shoulders,  her  eyes  looking  down  into  his,  her 
voice  trembling.  "  Oh,  Richard,  Richard!  Give  up 
this  life  of  dreams  you  are  living,  and  go  back  to 
your  law-office.  You  always  succeeded  in  the  law. 
This  new  career  of  yours  is  ruining  us.  I  can  econo 
mize,  dear,  just  as  I  have  always  done,"  she  added, 
with  another  sudden  change  of  tone,  bending  over 
him  and  slipping  her  hand  caressingly  into  his.  "  I 
will  do  everything  to  help  you.  I  did  not  mean  to 
be  cross  a  moment  ago.  I  was  worried  about  Oliver's 
talk.  I  have  been  silent  so  long — I  must  speak. 
Don't  be  angry,  dear,  but  you  must  keep  the  farm, 

76 


AN  OLD-FASHIONED  MORTGAGE 

I  will  go  myself  and  see  about  the  mortgage  at  the 
bank — we  cannot — we  must  not;  go  on  this  way — 
we  will  have  nothing  left." 

He  patted  her  arm  again  in  his  gentle  way — not 
to  calm  her  fears,  he  knew  so  well  that  she  was  wrong, 
but  to  quiet  the  nerves  that  he  thought  unstrung. 

"  But  I  need  this  extra  money  for  some  improve 
ments  which  I — 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  think  so,  but  you  don't,  Rich 
ard,  you  don't.  For  Heaven's  sake,  throw  the  motor 
ouj  into  the  street,  and  be  done  with  it.  It  will  ruin 
us  all  if  things  go  on  as  they  have  done." 

The  inventor  raised  his  eyes  quickly.  He  had 
never  seen  her  so  disturbed  in  all  their  married  life. 
She  had  never  spoken  in  this  way  before. 

"  Don't  excite  yourself,  Sallie,"  he  said,  gravely, 
and  with  a  certain  air  of  authority  in  his  manner. 
"  You'll  bring  on  one  of  your  headaches — it  will  all 
come  right.  Come,  my  dear,  let  us  go  into  the  house. 
People  are  passing,  and  will  wonder." 

She  followed  him  back  into  the  drawing-room,  his 
hand  still  held  fast  in  hers. 

"  Promise  me  one  thing,"  she  said,  stopping  at 
the  door  and  looking  up  into  his  eyes,  "  and  I  won't 
say  another  word.  Please  do  nothing  more  about  the 
farm  unless  you  let  me  know.  Let  me  think  first 
how  I  can  help.  It  will  all  come  out  right,  as  you 
say,  but  it  will  be  because  we  will  make  it  come 

77 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

right,  dear."  She  drew  his  face  down  toward  he? 
with  one  hand  and  kissed  him  tenderly  on  his  cheek. 
Then  she  bade  him  good-night  and  resumed  her  seat 
by  the  window,  to  watch  for  Oliver's  return. 

Try  as  she  would,  she  could  not  banish  her  fears. 
The  news  of  Richard's  intention  to  pay  off  the  loan  by 
selling  the  farm  had  sent  a  shudder  through  her  heart 
such  as  she  had  never  before  experienced,  for  that 
which  she  had  dreaded  had  come  to  pass.  Loyal  as 
she  had  always  been  to  her  husband,  and  proud  as  she 
was  of  his  genius  and  accomplishments,  and  sympa 
thetic  as  they  were  in  all  else  that  their  lives  touched 
upon,  her  keen,  penetrating  mind  had  long  since  di 
vined  the  principal  fault  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  her 
husband's  genius.  She  saw  that  the  weak  point  in  his 
make-up  was  not  his  inventive  quality,  but  his  in 
ability  to  realize  any  practical  results  from  his  in 
ventions  when  perfected.  She  saw,  too,  with  equal 
certainty  how  rapidly  their  already  slender  means 
were  being  daily  depleted  in  costly  experiments — • 
many  of  which  were  abandoned  as  soon  as  tried,  and 
she  knew  full  well  that  the  end  was  but  a  question 
of  time.  Even  when  he  had  abandoned  the  law,  and 
had  exchanged  his  office  near  the  Court-house  for  his 
shop  in  the  back  yard,  and  had  given  his  library  to 
his  young  students,  she  had  not  despaired;  she  still 
had  faith  in  his  genius. 

She  had  first  become  uneasy  when  the  new  stea-u* 
78 


AN  OLD-FASHIONED  MORTGAGE 

cut-off  had  failed  to  reimburse  him.  When  this  catas 
trophe  was  followed  by  his  losing  every  dollar  of  hi& 
interest  in  the  improved  cotton-gin,  because  of  hi& 
generosity  to  a  brother  inventor,  her  uneasiness  had 
become  the  keenest  anxiety.  And  now  here  was  this 
new  motor,  in  which  he  seemed  more  absorbed  than 
in  any  other  of  his  inventions.  This  was  to  plunge 
them  into  still  greater  difficulties  and  jeopardize  even 
the  farm. 

Richard  had  not  been  disturbed  by  it  all.  Serene- 
ancf  hopeful  always,  the  money  question  had  counted 
for  nothing  with  him.  His  compensation  lay  in  the 
fact  that  his  theories  had  been  proved  true.  More 
over,  there  were,  he  knew,  other  inventions  ahead, 
and  more  important  discoveries  to  be  made.  If 
money  were  necessary,  these  new  inventions  would 
supply  it.  Such  indifference  to  practical  questions 
was  an  agony  to  one  of  her  temperament,  burdened 
as  she  was  by  the  thought  of  their  increasing  daily 
expenses,  the  magnitude  of  which  Richard  never 
seemed  to  appreciate. 

And  yet  until  to-night,  when  Richard  had  made 
his  announcement  about  the  mortgage,  she  had  made 
no  protest,  uttered  no  word  of  censure.  Neither  had 
any  jar  or  discord  ever  disturbed  the  sweet  harmony 
of  their  home-life.  And  she  had  only  behaved  as 
any  other  wife  in  Kennedy  Square  would  have  done 
in  like  circumstances.  Remonstrances  against  a  hus- 

79 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

'band's  business  methods  were  never  made  in  the  best 
families.  In  his  own  house  Richard  was  master.  So 
-she  had  suffered  on  and  held  her  peace,  while  Rich 
ard  walked  with  his  head  in  the  clouds,  unconscious 
of  her  doubts.  The  situation  must  now  be  met,  and 
she  determined  to  face  it  with  all  her  might.  "  The 
farm  shall  not  be  sacrificed,  if  I  can  help  it."  she 
kept  repeating  to  herself;  "  any  economy  is  better 
than  that  disaster." 

"When  at  last  the  shock  of  the  news  of  the  threat 
ened  disaster  had  passed,  and  she  had  regained  her 
customary  composure,  she  decided  to  act  at  once  and 
at  head-quarters,  outside  of  Richard's  help  or  knowl 
edge.  She  would  send  for  Colonel  Clayton,  one  of 
the  directors  of  the  bank,  in  the  morning,  and  sey 
what  could  be  done  to  postpone  for  a  time  the  bank's 
-action.  This  would  give  her  time  to  think  what  next 
could  best  be  done  to  save  the  property.  This  set 
tled  in  her  mind,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  more 
important  and  pressing  need  of  the  moment — the 
dissuading  of  Oliver  from  this  new  act  of  folly. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  she  was  still  sitting  by  the 
drawing-room  window,  straining  her  eyes  across  the 
Square,  noting  every  figure  that  passed  into  the  radi 
ance  of  the  moonlight,  her  mind  becoming  clearer 
as  her  indomitable  will,  which  had  never  failed  her 
in  domestic  crises,  began  to  assert  itself. 

When  her  eye  fell  at  last  upon  her  son,  he  was 
80 


AX  OLD-FASHIONED  MORTGAGE 

walking  with  swinging  gait  up  the  long  path  across 
the  Square,  whistling  as  he  came,  his  straw  hat  tilted 
on  one  side,  his  short  coat  flying  free.  lie  had  taken 
Sue  home,  and  the  two  had  sat  on  her  father's  steps 
in  the  moonlight  long  after  the  other  boys  and  girls 
had  scattered  to  their  homes.  The  Colonel  had  come 
in  while  they  were  talking,  and  had  bade  them  good 
night  and  gone  up  to  bed. 

Girl  as  she  was,  Sue  already  possessed  that  subtle 
power  of  unconscious  coquetry  which  has  distin- 
g^iished  all  the  other  Sue  Claytons  of  all  the  other 
Kennedy  Squares  the  South  over  since  the  days  of 
Pocahontas.  She  had  kept  Oliver's  mind  away  from 
the  subject  that  engrossed  him,  and  on  herself;  and 
when,  at  last,  standing  between  the  big  columns  of 
the  portico  she  had  waved  her  hand,  good-night,  and 
had  gained  his  promise  to  stop  in  the  morning  on  his 
way  to  the  office,  for  just  another  word,  she  felt 
sure  that  his  every  thought  was  of  her.  Then  she 
had  closed  the  big  front  door — she  was  the  last  per 
son  in  the  house  awake — and  tripped  upstairs,  not 
lighting  her  candle  until  she  had  peeped  through  her 
shutters,  and  had  found  him  standing  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street  looking  toward  the  house.  He  made 
a  handsome  picture  of  a  lover,  as  he  stood  in  the 
moonlight,  and  Sue  smiled  complacently  to  herself 
at  the  delicate  attention  paid  her,  but  Oliver's  eyes, 
the  scribe  is  ashamed  to  say,  were  not  fixed  on  the 

81 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER 

particular  pair  of  green  blinds  that  concealed  this 
adorable  young  lady,  certainly  not  with  any  desire  to 
break  through  their  privacy.  One  of  the  unforgivable 
sins — nay,  one  of  the  impossible  sins — about  Kennedy 
Square  would  have  been  to  have  recognized  a  lady 
who  looked,  even  during  the  daytime,  out  from  u 
bedroom  window:  much  less  at  night.  That  was  why 
Sue  did  not  open  her  blinds. 

]STor,  indeed,  was  Oliver  occupied  with  the  ques 
tion  of  Sue's  blinds  at  all.  He  had  for  the  moment 
in  fact  completely  forgotten  the  existence  of  his  lady 
love.  He  was,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  studying 
the  wonderful  effect  of  the  white  light  of  the  moon 
flooding  with  its  radiance  the  columns  and  roof  of  the 
Clayton  house,  the  dark  magnolias  silhouetted  against 
the  flight  of  steps  and  the  indigo-blue  of  the  sky.  He 
had  already  formulated  in  his  mind  the  palette  with 
which  he  would  paint  it,  and  had  decided  that  the  mag 
nolias  were  blue-black  and  not  green,  and  the  steps 
greenish-white.  He  had,  furthermore,  determined  to 
make  an  outline  of  it  in  the  daylight,  and  talk  to  Mr« 
Crocker  about  it.  Sue's  eyes,  which  but  a  moment  be 
fore  had  so  charmed  him,  no  longer  lingered  in  his 
memory — nor  even  in  any  one  of  the  far  corners  of  his 
head  and  heart.  It  was  only  when  her  light  flashed  uf 
that  he  awoke  to  the  realization  of  what  he  was  doing 
and  even  this  breach  of  good  manners  was  forgotten 
by  him  in  his  delight  over  the  effect  which  the 

S3, 


AN  OLD-FASHIONED  MORTGAGE 

red  glow   of   the   candle   gave   to   the   whole    com 
position. 

With  the  picture  clearly  stamped  upon  his  brain, 
he  turned  and  stepped  quickly  across  the  Square,  and 
in  another  moment  he  had  thrown  his  mother  a  kiss 
through  the  window,  and  rushing  inside  had  caught 
her  in  his  arms. 

"  Poor  rnotherkiiis — and  you  all  alone,"  he  cried. 
"  Why,  I  thought  you  and  father  had  gone  to  bed 
long  ago." 

"  No,  son — I  was  waiting  for  you."  He  laid  his 
fresh  young  face  against  hers,  insisting  that  she  must 
go  to  bed  at  once;  helping  her  upstairs  awkwardly, 
laughing  as  he  went — telling  her  she  was  the  sweet 
est  girl  he  ever  knew  and  his  best  sweetheart — kiss 
ing  her  pale  cheeks  as  they  climbed  the  steps  together 
to  his  room. 

She  had  determined,  as  she  sat  by  the  window, 
to  talk  to  him  of  what  she  had  overheard  him  say  to 
Sue,  and  of  her  anxiety  over  Richard's  revelations, 
but  his  joyous  kiss  had  robbed  her  of  the  power.  She 
would  wait  for  another  time — she  said  to  herself — • 
not  to-night,  when  he  was  so  happy. 

"Anybody  at  Sue's,  Ollie?"  she  asked,  lighting 
liis  candle. 

"  Only  the  boys  and  girls — Tom  Pitts,  Charley 
Bowman,  Nellie  Talbot,  and  one  or  two  others.  The 
Colonel  came  in  just  before  I  left." 

83 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  But  the  Colonel  will  be  home  to-morrow,  will 
he  not?  "  she  asked,  quickly,  as  if  something  forgot 
ten  had  been  suddenly  remembered. 

"  Yes — think  so —  '  answered  Oliver,  taking  off 
his  coat  and  hanging  it  over  the  chair — "  because  he 
was  just  up  from  Pongateague.  He  and  Major  Pitts 
got  thirty-seven  wyoodcock  in  two  days.  Tom  wants 
me  to  go  down  with  him  some  day  next  week." 

A  shade  of  anxiety  crossed  the  mother's  face. 

"What  did  you  tell  him,  son?"  She  moved  a 
chair  nearer  the  bureau  and  sat  down  to  watch  him 
undress,  as  she  had  always  done  since  the  day  she 
first  tucked  him  into  his  crib. 

"  Oh,  I  said  I  would  ask  you."  He  was  loosening 
his  cravat,  his  chin  thrown  up,  the  light  of  the  can 
dle  falling  over  his  well-knit  shoulders  and  chest 
outlined  through  his  white  shirt. 

"  Better  not  go,  Ollie— you've  been  away  so  much 
lately." 

"  Oh.  dearie,"  he  protested,  in  a  tone  as  a  child 
wrould  have  done,  "  what  does  a  day  or  two  matter  i 
Be  a  darling  old  mother  and  let  me  go.  Tom  has  a 
gun  for  me,  and  Mr.  Talbot  is  going  to  lend  us  his 
red  setter.  Tom's  sister  is  going,  too,  and  so  are  her 
cousins.  Just  think,  now,  I  haven't  had  a  day  in  the 
country  for  a  coon's  age."  His  arms  were  round  her 
neck  now.  He  seemed  happier  over  the  excuse  to 
caress  her  than  anxious  about  her  possible  refusal. 

84 


AN  OLD-FASHIONED  MORTGAGE 

She  loosened  one  of  his  hands  and  laid  it  on  her 
cheek. 

"  No  holidays,  son?  Why  you  had  two  last  week, 
when  you  all  went  out  to  Stemmer's  Run,"  she  said, 
looking  up  into  his  face,  his  hand  still  in  hers. 

''Yes,  but  that  was  fishing!"  he  laughed  as  he 
'  waved  an  imaginary  rod  in  his  hands. 

"  And  the  week  before,  when  you  spent  the  day 
at  Uncle  Tilghman's  ?  "  she  continued,  smiling  sadly 
at  him,  but  with  the  light  of  an  ill-concealed  admira 
tion  on  her  face. 

"  Ah,  but  mother,  I  went  to  see  the  Lely!  That's 
an  education.  Oh,  that  portrait  in  pink!  "  He  was 
serious  now,  looking  straight  down  into  her  eyes — 
talking  with  his  hands,  one  thumb  in  air  as  if  it 
were  a  bit  of  charcoal  and  he  was  outlining  the  Lely 
on  an  equally  real  canvas.  "  Such  color,  mother — 
such  an  exquisite  poise  of  the  head  and  sweep  to  the 
shoulder —  "  and  the  thumb  described  a  curve  in  the 
air  as  if  following  every  turn  of  Lely's  brush. 

Her  eyes  followed  his  gestures — she  loved  his  en- 
chusiasm,  although  she  wished  it  had  been  about 
something  else. 

"  And  you  don't  get  any  education  out  of  the 
Judge's  law-books?" 

"  No,  I  wish  I  did."  The  joyous  look  on  his  face 
was  gone  now — his  hand  had  fallen  to  his  side.  "  It 
gets  to  be  more  of  a  muddle  every  day —  "  and  then. 

85 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVEK  HORN 

lie  added,  with  the  illogical  reasoning  of  youth — "  all 
the  lawyers  that  ever  lived  couldn't  paint  a  picture 
like  the  Lely." 

Mrs.  Horn  closed  her  eyes.  It  was  on  her  tongue 
to  tell  him  she  knew  what  was  in  his  heart,  but  she 
stopped;  no,  not  to-night,  she  said  firmly  to  herself, 
and  shut  her  lips  tight — a  way  she  had  of  bracing 
her  nerves  in  such  emergencies. 

Oliver  in  turn  saw  the  expression  of  anxiety  that 
-crossed  his  mother's  face  and  the  thin  drawn  line  of 
the  lips.  One  word  from  her  and  he  would  have 
poured  out  his  heart.  Then  some  shadow  that  crossed 
her  face  silenced  him.  "  No,  not  to-night —  "  he  said 
to  himself.  "  She  has  been  sitting  up  for  me  and 
is  tired — I'll  tell  her  to-morrow." 

"  Don't  go  with  Tom  Pitts,  my  son,"  she  said,  calm 
ly.  "  I'd  rather  you'd  stay ;  I  don't  want  you  to  go 
this  time.  Perhaps  a  little  later — "  and  a  slight  shiver 
went  through  her  as  she  rose  from  her  chair  and 
moved  toward  him. 

He  made  no  protest.  Her  final  word  was  always 
law  to  him — not  because  she  dominated  him,  but  be 
cause  his  nature  was  always  to  be  in  harmony  with 
the  thing  he  loved.  Because,  too,  underneath  it  all 
was  that  quality  of  tenderness  to  all  worron  old  and 
young,  which  forbade  him  to  cause  one  of  them  pain. 
Almost  unconsciously  to  himself  he  had  gone  through 
£i  process  by  which  from  having  yielded  her  the  obe- 

36 


AN  OLD-FASHIONED  MORTGAGE 

dience  of  a  child,  he  now  surrendered  to  her  the 
pleasures  of  his  youth  when  the  old  feeling  of  ma 
ternal  dominance  still  controlled  her  in  her  attitude 
to  him.  She  did  not  recognize  the  difference,  and 
he  had  but  half-perceived  it,  but  the  difference  had 
already  transformed  him  from  a  boy  into  a  man, 
though  with  unrecognized  powers  of  stability  as  yet. 
In  obeying  his  mother,  then  at  twenty-two,  or  even 
in  meeting  the  whims  and  conceits  of  his  sweethearts, 
this  quality  of  tenderness  to  the  woman  was  always 
uppermost  in  his  heart.  The  surrender  of  a  mo 
ment's  pleasure  seemed  so  little  to  him  compared  to 
the  expression  of  pain  he  could  see  cross  their  faces. 
He  had  so  much  to  make  him  happy — what  mattered 
it  if  out  of  a  life  so  full  he  should  give  up  any  one 
thing  to  please  his  mother. 

Patting  him  on  the  cheek  and  kissing  him  on  the 
neck,  as  she  had  so  often  done  when  some  sudden 
wave  of  affection  overwhelmed  her,  she  bade  him 
good-night  at  last. 

Once  outside  in  the  old-fashioned  hall,  she  stopped 
for  a  moment,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  the  light 
from  the  hall-lamp  shining  on  her  silver  hair  and 
the  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  and  said  slowly  to 
herself,  as  if  counting  each  word: 

"  What — can  I  do — to  save  this  boy — from — him 
self?  " 


CHAPTER  V 

A    MESSAGE    OF    IMPORTANCE 

Richard,  when  he  waked,  made  no  allusion  to  thfl 
mortgage  nor  to  his  promise  the  night  before,  to  take 
no  steps  in  the  matter  without  her  consent,  nor  could 
Mrs.  Horn  see  that  the  inventor  had  given  the  sub 
ject  further  thought.  He  came  in  to  breakfast  with 
his  usual  serenity  of  mien,  kissed  her  gallantly 
on  the  cheek — in  all  their  married  life  this  dear  old 
gentleman  had  never  forgotten  this  breakfast  kiss — 
and  taking  his  seat  opposite  her,  he  picked  up  the 
new  Scientific  Review,  just  in  by  the  morning  mail, 
and  began  cutting  the  leaves.  She  tried  to  draw  him 
into  conversation  by  asking  him  when  the  note  on 
the  mortgage  was  due,  but  his  mind  was  doubtless 
absorbed  by  some  problem  suggested  by  the  Review 
before  him,  for  without  answering — he,  of  course, 
had  not  heard  her — he  rose  from  his  chair,  excused 
himself  for  a  moment,  opened  a  book  in  his  library, 
studied  it  leisurely,  and  only  resumed  his  seat  when 
Malachi  gently  touched  his  elbow  and  said: 

"  Coffee  purty  nigh  done  sp'ilt,  Marse  Richard." 
Breakfast   over,   Richard   picked   up   his   letters, 
88 


A  MESSAGE   OF  IMPORTANCE 

and  with  that  far-away  look  in  his  eves  which  his 
wife  knew  so  well,  walked  to  the  closet,  took  down 
his  long  red  calico  gown,  slipped  it  over  his  coat, 
and  with  a  loving  pat  on  his  wife's  shoulder  as  he 
passed,  and  with  the  request  that  no  one  but  Nathan 
should  see  him  that  morning,  made  his  way  through 
the  damp  brick-paved  back  yard  to  the  green  door  of 
his  "  li'l  "  room. 

Mrs.  Horn  watched  his  retreating  figure  from  the 
window — his  head  bent,  his  soft  hair  stirred  by  the 
morning  air,  falling  about  his  shoulders.  His  seren 
ity;  his  air  of  abstraction;  of  being  wrapped  in 
the  clouds  as  it  were — borne  aloft  by  the  power  of 
a  thought  altogether  beyond  her,  baffled  her  as  it 
always  did.  She  could  not  follow  his  flights  when 
he  was  in  one  of  these  uplifted  moods.  She  could 
only  watch  and  wait  until  he  returned  again  to  the 
common  ground  of  their  daily  love  and  companion 
ship. 

Brushing  a  quick  tear  from  her  eyes  with  an  im 
patient  sigh,  she  directed  Malachi  to  go  to  Oliver's 
room  and  tell  him  he  must  get  up  at  once,  as  she 
wanted  him  to  carry  a  message  of  importance.  She 
had  herself  rapped  at  her  son's  door  as  she  passed 
on  her  way  downstairs,  and  Malachi  had  already  paid 
two  visits  to  the  same  portal — one  with  Oliver's  shoes 
and  one  on  his  own  account.  He  had  seen  his  mis 
tress's  anxiety,  and  knowing  that  his  young  master 

89 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORX 

had  come  in  late  the  night  before,  had  mistaken  the 
cause,  charging  Mrs.  Horn's  perturbation  to  Oliver's 
account.  The  only  response  Oliver  had  made  to 
either  of  his  warnings  had  been  a  smothered  yawn 
and  a  protest  at  being  called  at  daylight.  On  his  third 
visit  Malachi  was  more  insistent,  the  hall-clock  by 
that  time  having  struck  nine. 

"  Ain't  you  out'en  dat  bed  yit,  Marse  Oliver?  Dis 
yere's  de  third  time  I  been  yere.  Better  git  up;  yo' 
ma's  gittin'  onres'less." 

"  Coming,  Mally.  Tell  mother  I'll  be  down  right 
away,"  called  Oliver,  springing  out  of  bed.  Mala 
chi  stepped  softly  downstairs  again,  bowed  low  to  his 
mistress,  and  with  a  perfectly  straight  face  said: 

"  He's  mos'  ready,  mistis.  Jes'  a-breshin'  ob  his 
ha'r  when  I  opened  de  do'.  Spec'  Marse  Oliver  over- 
slep'  hisse'f,  or  maybe  nobody  ain't  call  him — 

He  could  not  bear  to  hear  the  boy  scolded.  He 
had  begun  to  shield  his  young  master  in  the  days 
when  he  carried  him  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  would 
still  shade  the  truth  for  him  whenever  he  considered 
necessity  required  it. 

When  Oliver  at  last  came  downstairs  it  was  by 
means  of  the  hand-rail  as  a  slide,  a  dash  through  the 
hall  and  a  bound  into  the  breakfast-room,  followed 
by  a  joyous  good-morning,  meeting  his  mother's 
"  How  could  you  be  so  late,  my  boy,"  without  any 
defence  of  his  conduct,  putting  one  hand  under  her 

90 


A  MESSAGE   OF  IMPORTANCE 

chin  and  the  other  around  her  neck,  and  kissing  her 
where  her  white  hair  parted  over  her  forehead. 

Malachi  waited  an  instant,  breathing  free*1  when 
he  found  that  his  statement  regarding  Oliver's  toilet 
had  passed  muster,  and  then  shuffled  off  to  the  kitchen 
for  hot  waffles  and  certain  other  comforting  viands 
that  Aunt  Hannah,  the  cook,  had  kept  hot  for  her 
young  master,  Malachi's  several  reports  having  con 
firmed  her  suspicions  that  Oliver,  as  usual,  would 
be  half  an  hour  late.  I 

*'  AVhat  a  morning,  motherkins,"  Oliver  cried. 
"  Such  a  sky,  all  china-blue  and  white.  Oh,  you  just 
ought  to  see  how  fine  the  old  church  looms  up  be 
hind  the  trees.  I'm  going  to  paint  that  some  day? 
from  my  window.  Dad  had  his  breakfast?  "  and  he 
glanced  at  the  empty  seat  and  plate.  "  Sausage,  eh? 
Mally,  got  any  for  me?  "  and  he  dragged  up  his 
chair  beside  her,  talking  all  the  time  as  he  spread 
his  napkin  and  drew  the  dishes  toward  him. 

He  never  once  noticed  her  anxious  face,  he  was 
so  full  of  his  own  buoyant  happiness.  She  did  not 
check  his  enthusiasm.  This  breakfast-hour  alone 
with  her  boy — he  wyas  almost  always  later  than  Rich 
ard — was  the  happiest  of  the  day.  But  her  heart 
was  too  heavy  this  morning  to  enjoy  it.  Instead  of 
listening  with  her  smile  of  quiet  satisfaction,  answer 
ing  him  now  and  then  with  a  gayety  of  humor  which 
matched  his  own,  she  was  conscious  only  of  the  wait- 

91 


THE  FOETUSES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

ing  for  an  opportunity  to  break  into  his  talk  with 
out  jarring  upon  his  mood.  At  last,  with  a  hesitat 
ing  emphasis  that  would  have  alarmed  anyone  less 
wrapped  in  his  own  content  than  her  son,  she 
said: 

"  Ollie,  when  you  finish  your  breakfast  I  want  you, 
on  your  way  to  Judge  Ellicott's  office,  to  stop  at 
Colonel  Clayton's  and  ask  him  to  be  good  enough 
to  come  and  see  me  as  soon  as  he  can  on  a  little 
matter  of  business.  Tell  him  I  will  keep  him  but  a 
minute.  If  you  hurry,  my  son,  you'll  catch  him  be 
fore  he  leaves  the  house." 

The  die  was  cast  now.  She  had  taken  her  first 
step  without  Richard's  hand  to  guide  her — the 
first  in  all  her  life.  It  was  pain  to  do  it — the 
more  exquisite  because  she  loved  to  turn  to  him 
for  guidance  or  relief,  to  feel  the  sense  of  his 
protection.  Heretofore  he  had  helped  her  in  every 
domestic  emergency,  his  soft,  gentle  hand  soothing 
and  quieting  her,  when  troubles  arose.  She  had 
wavered  during  the  night  between  her  duty  to  her 
family  in  saving  the  farm,  and  her  duty  to  her  hus 
band  in  preserving  unbroken  the  tie  of  loyal  depend 
ence  that  had  always  bound  them  together.  Many 
emotions  had  shaken  her  as  she  lay  awake,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  flutings  in  the  canopy  of  the  high-post 
bedstead  which  the  night-lamp  faintly  illumined, 
Richard  asleep  beside  her,  dreaming  doubtless  of  cogs 

92 


A  MESSAGE   OF  IMPORTANCE 

and  pulleys  and  for  the  hundredth  time  of  his  find* 
ing  the  one  connecting  link  needed  to  complete  the 
chain  of  his  success. 

But  before  the  day  had  broken,  her  keen,  pene 
trating  mind  had  cut  through  the  fog  of  her  doubts. 
Come  what  may,  the  farm  should  never  be  given  up. 
Richard,  for  all  his  urgent  need  of  money  to  per 
fect  his  new  motor,  should  not  be  allowed  to  sacrifice 
this  the  only  piece  of  landed  property  which  they 
possessed,  except  the  roof  that  sheltered  them  all. 
Tlte  farm  saved,  she  would  give  her  attention  to 
Oliver's  future  career.  On  one  point  her  mind  was 
firmly  made  up — he  should  never,  in  spite  of  what  his 
father  said,  become  a  painter. 

Oliver  hurried  through  his  breakfast,  cut  short 
Malachi's  second  relay  of  waffles  to  the  great  disap 
pointment  of  that  excellent  servitor,  and  with  his 
mother's  message  for  the  moment  firmly  fixed  in  his 
mind,  tilted  his  hat  on  one  side  of  his  head  and  started 
across  Kennedy  Square,  whistling  as  he  went. 

Mrs.  Horn  moved  her  seat  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  upon  the  brick-paved  yard.  The  door  of 
the  shop  was  shut.  Richard  was  already  at  work,  for 
a  thin  curl  of  blue  smoke  was  rising  from  the  chim 
ney.  As  she  sat  looking  out  upon  the  tulip-tree  and 
the  ivy-coA^ered  wall  beyond,  a  strange,  unaccountable 
sense  of  loneliness  new  in  her  experience  came  over 
her.  The  lines  about  her  mouth  settled  more  firmly. 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

and  the  anxious  look  that  had  filled  her  eyes  changed 
to  one  of  determination. 

"  Nobody  can  help,"  she  said  to  herself  with  a  sigh. 
"  I  must  do  it  all  myself;  "  and  picking  up  her  basket 
of  keys  she  mounted  slowly  to  her  room. 

Once  outside  the  front  door,  with  the  fresh,  cicai 
air  stirring  to  a  silver-white  the  leaves  of  the  maples, 
the  birds  singing  in  the  branches  and  the  sky  glisten 
ing  overhead,  one  of  those  sudden  changes  of  mood 
to  which  our  young  hero  was  subject  swept  over  him. 
The  picture  of  the  dear  mother  whom  he  loved  and 
whose  anxious  face  had  at  last  filled  his  thoughts, 
by  some  shifting  of  the  gray  matter  of  this  volatile 
young  gentleman's  brain  had  suddenly  become  re 
placed  by  another. 

Pretty  Sue  Clayton,  her  black  eyes  snapping  with 
fun,  her  hand  so  soon  to  be  outstretched  in  welcome, 
was  now  the  dominating  figure  in  his  mental  horizon. 
Even  Sir  Peter  Lely's  girl  in  pink  and  the  woodcock 
shooting  with  Tom  Pitts,  and  all  the  other  delights 
that  had  filled  his  brain  had  become  things  of  the 
past  as  he  thought  of  Sue's  greeting.  For  the  time 
being  this  black-eyed  little  witch  with  the  ringlets 
about  her  face  had  complete  possession  of  him. 

He  had  not  thought  of  her,  it  is  true,  for  five  con 
secutive  minutes  since  he  had  bidden  her  good-night 
ten  hours  ago;  and  he  would,  I  am  quite  sure,  have 
forgotten  even  his  promise  to  see  her  this  morning 

94 


A  MESSAGE   OF  IMPORTANCE 

had  not  his  mother's  message  made  his  going  to  her 
house  imperative.  And  yet,  now  that  the  prospect 
of  having  a  glimpse  of  her  face  was  assured,  he  could 
hardly  wait  until  he  reached  her  side. 

Not  that  he  had  some  new  thing  to  tell  her — 
something  that  had  bubbled  up  fresh  from  the  depths 
of  his  heart  over-night.  Indeed,  had  that  portion  of 
this  young  gentleman's  anatomy  been  searched  with 
a  dark  lantern,  it  can  safely  be  said  that  not  the 
slightest  suggestion  of  this  fair  inamorata's  form  or 
lineaments  would  have  been  found  lurking  in  any 
one  of  its  recesses.  Furthermore,  I  can  state  posi 
tively — and  I  knew  this  young  gentleman  quite  well 
at  the  time — that  it  was  not  Sue  at  all  that  he  longed 
for  at  this  precise  moment,  even  though  he  hurried 
to  meet  her.  It  was  more  the  woman  in  her — the 
something  that  satisfied  his  inner  nature  when  he 
was  with  her — her  coy  touches  of  confidence,  her  art 
less  outbursts  of  admiration,  looking  up  in  his  face 
as  she  spoke,  the  dimples  playing  about  the  corners 
of  her  mouth.  He  revelled  in  all  those  subtle  flat 
teries  and  cajoleries,  and  in  all  the  arts  to  please  of 
which  she  was  past  mistress.  He  loved  to  believe 
her — she  intended  that  he  should — when  she  told  him 
(how  different  he  was  from  anybody  about  Kennedy 
;  Square,  and  how  nobody  swam  or  rode  or  danced  as 
he  did;  nor  wore  their  hair  so  becomingly,  nor  their 
clothes — especially  the  gray  jacket  buttoned  up  closfl 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

under  the  chin,  nor  carried  themselves  as  the;? 
walked,  nor 

Why  go  on  ?  "We  all  know  exactly  how  she  said  it, 
and  how  sincere  she  seemed,  and  how  we  believed  it 
all  (and  do  now,  some  of  us),  and  how  blissful  it  was 
to  sit  beside  her  and  hear  her  voice  and  know  that  this 
most  adorable  of  women  really  believed  that  the 
very  sun  itself  rose  and  set  in  our  own  adorable 
persons. 

Because  of  all  this  and  of  many  other  things  with 
which  we  have  nothing  to  do,  our  young  hero  saw 
only  Sue's  eyes  when  that  maiden,  who  had  been 
watching  for  him  at  the  library  window,  laid  her 
hand  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat  in  her  coaxing  way.  No 
wonder  he  had  forgotten  everything  which  his  mother 
had  asked  him  to  do.  I  can  forgive  him  under  the 
circumstances — and  so  can  you.  Soft  hands  are  very 
beguiling,  sometimes — and  half -closed  lids — Well! 
It  is  a  good  many  years  ago,  but  there  are  some 
things  that  none  of  us  ever  forget. 

Blinded  by  such  fascinations  it  is  not  at  all  aston 
ishing  that  long  before  Oliver  regained  his  senses  the 
Colonel  had  left  the  house  for  the  day.  That  dis 
tinguished  gentleman  would,  no  doubt,  have  waited 
the  young  prince's  pleasure  in  his  library  had  he 
known  of  his  errand.  But  since  the  Colonel  had  un 
fortunately  taken  himself  off,  there  was  nothing,  of 
course,  for  our  Oliver  to  do  but  to  remain  where  he 

96 


A  MESSAGE   OF  IMPORTANCE 

was  until  noon — this  was  Sue's  way  out  of  the 
culty — and  then  to  catch  the  Colonel  at  the  bank 
where  he  could  always  be  found  between  twelve  and 
one  o'clock,  or  where  Mr.  Stiger,  the  cashier,  could 
lay  his  hands  on  him  if  he  was  anywhere  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  a  suggestion  of  Sue's  which  at  once  relieved 
Oliver  from  further  anxiety,  Mr.  Stiger  being  one 
o£.  his  oldest  and  dearest  friends. 

By  the  time,  however,  that  Oliver  had  reached  the 
bank  the  Colonel  had  left  for  the  club,  where  he 
^Tould  have  been  too  happy,  no  doubt — being  the 
most  courteous  of  colonels,  etc.,  etc. — "  if  his  dear 
young  friend  had  only  sent  him  word,"  etc. 

All  this  our  breathless  young  Mercury — Oliver 
never  walked  when  he  could  run — learned  some  hours 
later  from  old  Mr.  Stiger,  the  cashier,  who  punched 
him  in  the  ribs  at  the  end  of  every  sentence  in  which 
he  conveyed  the  disappointing  information,  calling 
him  "  Creeps,"  at  short  intervals,  and  roaring  with 
laughter  at  the  boy's  account  of  the  causes  leading  up 
to  his  missing  the  Colonel. 

"  Gone  to  the  club,  Creeps,  don't  I  tell  you 
( — punch  in  the  ribs — );  gone  to  get  a  little  sip  of 
Madeira  and  a  little  bit  of  woodcock  ( — punch  over 
the  heart — ),  and  a  little — oh,  I  tell  you,  you  young 
dog —  '  (this  punch  straight  on  the  breast-bone) — • 
"  you  ought  to  be  a  bank  director — you  hear! — a  big 
fat  bank  director,  and  o\vn  a  big  house  up  in  the 

97 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Square,  if  you  want  to  enjoy  yourself — and  have  a 
pretty  daughter — Oh,  you  young  rascal!  "  This  lasf 
punch  bent  Oliver  double,  and  was  followed  by  an 
outburst  of  uncontrollable  laughter  from  Stiger. 

These  same  punchings  and  outbursts  had  gone  on 
since  the  day«  that  Oliver  was  in  short  trousers  and 
Stiger  was  superintendent  of  the  Sunday-school  which 
the  boy  had  attended  in  his  early  years — Stiger  was 
still  superintendent  and  of  the  same  school:  cashiers 
had  to  have  certificates  of  character  in  those  days. 
A  smooth-shaven,  round-headed  old  fellow  was 
Stiger,  with  two  little  dabs  of  side-whiskers,  a  pair 
of  eyes  that  twinkled  behind  a  pair  of  gold  spectacles, 
and  a  bald  head  kept  polished  by  the  constant  mop 
ping  of  a  red  silk  handkerchief.  His  costume  in  the 
bank  was  a  black  alpaca  coat  and  high  black  satin 
stock,  which  grabbed  him  tight  around  the  neck,  and 
held  in  place  the  two  points  of  his  white  collar  strug 
gling  to  be  free.  Across  his  waist-line  was  a  square 
of  cloth.  This,  in  summer,  replaced  his  waistcoat, 
and,  in  winter,  protected  it  from  being  rubbed  into 
holes  by  constant  contact  with  the  edge  of  the  coun 
ter. 

His  intimacy  with  Oliver  dated  from  one  hot  Sun- 
lay  morning  years  before,  when  Oliver  had  Broken 
ii  upon  the  old  gentleman's  long  prayers  by  sundry 
scrapings  of  his  finger-nails  down  the  whitewashed 
Wall  of  the  school-room,  producing  a  blood-cooling 

98 


A  MESSAGE   OF  IMPORTANCE 

and  most  irreverent  sound,  much  to  the  discomfort 
of  the  worshippers. 

"  Who  made  that  noise?  "  asked  Mr.  Stiger,  when 
the  amen  was  reached. 

"  Me,  sir." 

"What  for?" 

"  To  get  cool.    It  makes  creeps  go  down  my  back." 

From  that  day  the  old  cashier  had  never  called 
Oliver  anything  but  "  Creeps." 

Oliver,  in  a  spirit  of  playful  revenge,  made  cari- 
caiures  of  his  prosecutor  in  these  later  years,  enlarg 
ing  his  nose,  puffing  out  his  cheeks,  and  dressing  him 
up  in  impossible  clothes.  These  sketches  he  would 
mail  to  the  cashier  as  anonymous  communications, 
always  stopping  at  the  bank  the  next  day  to  see  how 
Stiger  enjoyed  them.  He  generally  found  them 
tacked  up  over  the  cashier's  desk.  Some  of  them 
were  still  there  when  Stiger  died. 

Carried  away  by  the  warm  greetings  of  the  old 
cashier,  and  the  hearty,  whole-souled  spirit  of  com 
panionship  inherent  in  the  man — a  spirit  always  dear 
to  Oliver — he  not  only  stayed  to  make  another  cari 
cature  of  the  old  fellow,  over  which  the  original 
laughed  until  the  tears  ran  down  his  fat  cheeks,  but 
until  all  the  old  sketches  were  once  more  taken  from 
the  drawer  or  examined  on  the  wall  and  laughed  at 
over  again,  Stiger  praising  him  for  his  cleverness 
and  predicting  all  kinds  of  honors  and  distinctions 

99 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

for  him  when  his  talents  became  recognized.  Tt 
was  just  the  atmosphere  of  general  approval  in  which 
our  young  hero  loved  to  bask,  and  again  the  hours 
slipped  away  and  three  o'clock  came  and  went  and 
his  mother's  message  was  still  undelivered.  Nor  had 
he  been  at  Judge  Ellicott's  office.  This  fact  was  not 
impressed  upon  him  by  the  moon-faced  clock  that 
hung  over  the  cashier's  desk — time  made  no  differ 
ence  to  Oliver — but  by  the  cashier  himself,  who  be 
gan  stuffing  the  big  books  into  a  great  safe  built  into 
the  wall,  preparatory  to  locking  it  with  a  key  that 
could  have  opened  the  gate  of  a  walled  town,  and 
which  the  old  gentleman  took  home  with  him  every 
night  and  hung  on  a  nail  by  his  bed. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  another  half  hour  had 
struck  before  Oliver  mounted  the  steps  of  the  Chesa 
peake  Club  in  search  of  the  elusive  Colonel. 

The  fat,  mahogany-colored  porter,  who  sat  all  day 
in  the  doorway  of  the  club,  dozing  in  his  lobster- 
shell  bath-chair,  answered  his  next  inquiry.  This 
ancient  relic,  who  always  boasted  that  no  gentleman 
member  of  the  club,  dead  or  alive,  could  pass  him 
without  being  recognized,  listened  to  Oliver's  request 
with  a  certain  lifeless  air — a  manner  always  shown  to 
strangers — and  shuffled  away  to  the  reading-room  to 
find  the  Colonel. 

The  occupant  of  this  bath-chair  was  not  only  one 
of  the  characters  of  the  club  but  one  of  the  characters 

100 


A  MESSAGE   OF  IMPORTANCE 

of  the  town.  He  was  a  squat,  broken-kneed  old 
darky,  with  white  eyebrows  arching  over  big  brass 
spectacles,  a  flat  nose,  and  two  keen,  restless  monkey 
eyes.  His  hands,  like  those  of  many  negroes  of  his 
age,  were  long  and  shrivelled,  the  palms  wrinkled  as 
the  inside  of  a  turkey's  foot  and  of  the  same  color 
and  texture.  His  two  feet,  always  in  evidence,  rested 
on  their  heels,  and  were  generally  encased  in  carpet 
slippers — shoes  being  out  of  the  question  owing  to  his 
life-long  habit  of  storing  inside  his  own  person  the 
dfrainings  of  the  decanters,  an  idiosyncrasy  which 
produced  a  form  of  gout  that  only  carpet  slippers 
could  alleviate.  In  his  earlier  life  he  had  carried  Gen 
eral  Washington  around  in  his  arms,  had  waited  on 
Henry  Clay,  and  had  been  body-servant  to  Lafayette, 
besides  holding  the  horses  of  half  the  generals  of  the 
War  of  1812 — at  least,  he  said  so,  and  no  man  of 
his  color  dared  contradict  him. 

The  years  of  service  of  this  guardian  of  the  front 
door  dated  back  to  the  time  when  the  Chippendale 
furniture  of  Colonel  Ralph  Coston,  together  with 
many  of  the  portraits  covering  the  walls,  and  the  silver 
chafing-dishes  lining  the  sideboard,  had  come  into  the 
possession  of  the  club  through  that  gentleman's  last 
will  and  testament.  Coston  was  the  most  beloved  of 
all  the  epicures  of  his  time,  and  his  famous  terrapin- 
stew — one  of  the  marvellous  delicacies  of  the  period 
— had  been  cooked  in  these  same  chafing-dishes.  The 

101 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

mahogany-colored  Cerberus  had  been  Coston's  slave 
as  well  as  butler,  and  still  belonged  to  the  estate.  It 
was  eminently  proper,  therefore,  that  he  should  still 
maintain  his  position  at  the  club  as  long  as  his  feet 
held  out. 

While  he  was  gone  in  search  of  the  Colonel,  Oli 
ver  occupied  himself  for  a  moment  in  examining  one 
of  the  old  English  sporting  prints  that  ornamented  the 
side-walls  of  the  bare,  uncarpeted,  dismal  hall.  It  was 
the  second  time  that  he  had  entered  these  sacred  doors 
• — few  men  of  his  own  age  had  ever  done  as  much. 
He  had  stopped  there  once  before  in  search  of  his 
father,  when  his  mother  had  been  taken  suddenly 
ill.  He  recalled  again  the  curious  spiral  staircase 
at  the  end  of  the  hall  where  his  father  had  met  him 
and  which  had  impressed  him  so  at  the  time.  He 
could  see,  too,  the  open  closet  out  of  which  Mr. 
Horn  had  taken  his  overcoat,  and  which  was  now 
half-filled  with  hats  and  coats. 

From  the  desolate,  uninviting  hall,  Oliver  passed 
into  the  large  meeting-room  of  the  club  fronting  the 
street,  now  filled  with  members,  many  of  whom  had 
dropped  in  for  half  an  hour  011  their  way  back  to 
their  offices.  Of  these  some  of  the  older  and  more 
sedate  men,  like  Judge  Bowman  and  Mr,,  Pancoast, 
were  playing  chess;  others  were  seated  about  the 
small  tables,  reading,  sipping  toddies,  or  chatting  to 
gether.  A  few  of  the  younger  bloods,  men  of  fort;? 

102 


A  MESSAGE   OF  IMPORTANCE 

or  thereabouts,  were  standing  by  the  uncurtained 
windows  watching  the  belles  of  the  town  in  their 
flounced  dresses  and  wide  leghorn  hats,  out  for  an 
afternoon  visit  or  promenade.  Among  these  men 
Oliver  recognized  Howard  Thorn,  son  of  the  Chief- 
Justice,  poor  as  a  church  mouse  and  fifty  years  of 
age  if  a  day.  Oliver  was  not  surprised  to  find  Thorn 
craning  his  neck  at  the  window.  He  remembered 
the  story  they  told  of  this  perennial  beau — of  how 
he  had  been  in  love  with  every  woman  in  and  around 
Kennedy  Square,  from  Miss  Clendenning  down  to 
the  latest  debutante/ and  of  how  he  would  tell  you 
over  his  first  toddv  that  he  had  sown  his  wild  oats 

*/ 

and  was  about  to  settle  down  for  life,  and  over  his 
last — the  sixth,  or  seventh,  or  eighth — that  the  most 
adorable  woman  in  town,  after  a  life  devoted  to  her 
service,  had  thrown  him  over,  and  that  henceforth  all 
that  was  left  to  him  was  a  load  of  buckshot  and  six 
feet  of  earth. 

Oliver  bowed  to  those  of  the  members  he  knew, 
and  wheeling  one  of  the  clumsy  mahogany  chairs 
into  position,  sat  down  to  await  the  arrival  of  Colonel 
Clayton. 

Meanwhile  his  eyes  wandered  over  the  desolate 
room  with  its  leather-covered  chairs  and  sofas  and 
big  marble  mantel  bare  of  every  ornament  but  an 
other  moon-faced  clock — a  duplicate  of  the  one  at 
the  bank — and  two  bronze  candelabra  flanking  each 

103 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

end,  and  then  on-  the  portraits  of  the  dead  and  gone 
members  which  relieved  the  sombre  walls — one  in 
a  plum-colored  coat  with  hair  tied  in  a  queue  being 
no  other  than  his  own  ancestor.  Pie  wondered  to 
himself  where  lay  the  charm  and  power  to  attract  in 
a  place  so  colorless,  and  he  thought,  as  was  his  habit 
with  all  interiors,  how  different  he  would  want  it  to 
be  if  he  ever  became  a  member.  His  fresh  young 
nature  revolted  at  the  dinginess  and  bareness  of  the 
surroundings.  He  couldn't  understand  why  the  men 
came  here  and  what  could  be  the  fascination  of  sit 
ting  round  these  cold  tables  talking  by  the  hour 
when  there  was  so  much  happiness  outside — so  much 
of  light  and  air  and  sunshine  free  to  everybody. 

He  was,  moreover,  a  little  constrained  and  un 
comfortable.  There  was  none  of  the  welcome  of  Mr, 
Crocker's  studio  about  this  place,  nor  any  of  the 
comforting  companionship  of  the  jolly  old  cashier, 
who  made  the  minutes  fly  as  if  they  had  wings;  and 
that,  too,  in  a  musty  bank  far  more  uninviting 
even  than  the  club.  He  remembered  his  mother's 
message  now — and  he  remembered  her  face  and  the 
anxious  expression — as  wre  always  remember  duties 
when  we  are  uncomfortable.  He  meant  to  hurry 
home  to  her  as  soon  as  the  Colonel  dismissed  him,  and 
tell  her  how  it  had  all  happened,  and  how  sorry  he 
was,  and  what  a  stupid  he  had  been,  and  she  would 
forgive  him  as  she  had  a  hundred  times  before. 

104 


A  MESSAGE   OF  IMPOKTANCE 

As  he  sat  absorbed  in  these  thoughts  his  attention 
was  attracted  by  a  conversation  at  the  adjoining  table 
between  that  dare-devil  cross-country  rider,  Tom 
Gunning  of  Calvert  County,  old  General  McTavish 
of  the  Mexican  War,  and  Billy  Talbot  the  exquisite. 
Gunning  was  in  his  corduroys  and  hunting-boots. 
He  always  wore  them  when  he  came  to  town, 
even  when  dining  with  his  friends.  He  had  them 
on  now,  the  boots  being  specially  in  evidence,  one 
being  hooked  over  the  chair  on  which  he  sat  and  with 
in  ft  foot  of  Oliver's  elbow.  None  of  these  peculiari 
ties,  however,  made  the  slightest  difference  in  Ken 
nedy  Square,  so  far  as  Gunning's  social  position  was 
concerned — Tom's  mother  having  been  a  Carroll  and 
his  grandfather  once  Governor  of  the  State. 

The  distinguished  cross-country  rider  was  telling 
General  McTavish,  immaculate  in  black  wig,  blue 
coat,  pepper-and-salt  trousers  and  patent-leather 
shoes,  and  red-faced  Billy  Talbot,  of  an  adventure 
that  he,  Gunning,  had  had  the  night  before  while  driv 
ing  home  to  his  plantation.  The  exquisite's  costume 
was  in  marked  contrast  to  those  of  the  other  two — it 
was  his  second  change  that  day.  At  this  precise  mo 
ment  he  was  upholstered  in  peg-top,  checker-board 
trousers,  bob-tail  Piccadilly  coat,  and  a  one-inch  brim 
straw  hat,  all  of  the  latest  English  pattern.  Every 
thing,  in  fact,  that  Billy  possessed  was  English,  front 
a  rimless  monocle  decorating  his  left  eye,  down  to  the 

105 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

animated  door-mat  of  a  skye-terrier  that  followed  at 
his  heels. 

Oliver  saw  from  the  way  in  which  McTavish 
leaned  over  the  table,  protecting  the  tray  with  his 
two  arms,  that  he  was  in  command  of  the  decanter, 
and  that  the  duty  of  alleviating  the  thirst  of  his  com 
panions  had  devolved  upon  the  General.  Billy  Tal- 
bot  sat  with  his  hat  tipped  back  on  his  head,  his  chin 
resting  on  his  abbreviated  cane,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Gunning.  Both  McTavish  and  Talbot  were  listen 
ing  intently  to  the  cross-country  rider's  story., 

"  And  you  say  you  were  sober,  Gunning?  "  Oliver 
heard  the  General  ask,  with  a  scrutinizing  look  at 
Tom.  Not  with  any  humorous  intent — more  with 
the  manner  of  a  presiding  officer  at  a  court-martial, 
determined  to  establish  certain  essential  facts. 

"  As  a  clock,  General.  The  first  thing  I  knew  the 
mare  shied  and  I  came  pretty  near  landin'  in  the  dirt." 
(The  lower  county  men  always  dropped  their  g's.) 
"  He  was  lyin',  I  tell  you,  right  across  the  road.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  Kitty,  I  would  have  run  him  down.  I 
got  out  and  held  on  to  the  reins,  and  there  he  was,  sir, 
stretched  out  as  drunk  as  a  lord,  flat  on  his  back  and 
sound  asleep.  I  saw  right  away  that  he  was  a  gentle 
man,  and  I  tied  the  mare  to  a  tree,  picked  him  up 
with  the  greatest  care,  laid  him  on  the  side  of  the 
road,  put  his  hat  under  his  head,  and  made  him 
as  comfortable  as  I  could,  when,  by  George,  sir!  I 

106 


A  MESSAGE  OF  IMPOETANCE 

hadn't  any  more  than  got  back  to  my  buggy,  when 
bang!  went  a  ball  within  a  foot  of  my  head!  " 

The  General,  who,  as  he  listened,  had  been  re- 
pointing  the  waxed  ends  of  his  dyed  mustache  with 
his  lemon-colored  kid  gloves,  now  leaned  back  in  his 
chair. 

"  Eired  at  you,  sir?"  The  General  had  served 
both  at  Chapultepec  and  Buena  Vista,  and  was  an  au 
thority  where  gunpowder  was  concerned. 

"  That's  just  what  he  did.  Came  near  takin'  the 
tof$  of  my  head  off!  Hadn't  been  so  dark  he  would 
have  done  it." 

"  Good  God!  you  don't  tell  me  so!  "  exclaimed  the 
General,  mopping  his  lips  with  his  perfumed  handker 
chief.  "  Were  you  armed,  Gunning?  " 

"  Xo,  sir,  I  was  entirely  at  his  mercy  and  abso 
lutely  defenceless.  Well,  I  grabbed  the  reins  to  quiet 
the  mare  and  then  I  hollered  out — '  What  the  devil 
do  you  mean,  sir,  by  tryin'  to  blow  the  top  of  my 
head  off  ? '  I  could  see  now  that  he  had  raised  him 
self  up  on  his  elbow  and  was  lookin'  at  me  in  a  way 
I  did  not  like. 

"  '  What  do  you  mean  by  disturbin'  my  rest,  sir,' 
he  called  back.- 

"  *  Well,  but  my  dear  sir,  you  were  lyin'  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  and  might  have  been  run 
over.' 

"  '  It's  none  of  your  business  where  I  lie,'  he  hoi- 
107 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

lered  back.  '  I  go  to  sleep  where  I  damn  please,  sir. 
I  consider  it  a  very  great  liberty.' 

"  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,'  I  said.  *  I  did  not  in 
tend  any  trespass —  I  was  walkin'  toward  him  now. 
I  did  not  want  him  to  shoot  again. 

"  l  That's  sufficient,  sir,'  he  said.  '  No  gentleman 
can  do  more.  There's  my  hand,  sir.  Allow  me,  sir, 
to  offer  you  a  drink.  If  you  will  roll  me  over,  you 
will  find  my  flask  in  my  coat-tail  pocket,' 

"  Well,  I  rolled  him  over,  took  a  drink,  and  then 
I  brought  the  mare  alongside,  helped  him  in  and 
drove  him  home  to  my  house.  He  was  a  most  de 
lightful  gentleman.  Didn't  leave  my  place  until  four 
o'clock  in  the  mornin'.  He  lives  about  fifteen  miles 
below  me.  He  told  me  his  name  was  Toffington.  Do 
you  happen  to  know  him,  Talbot? "  said  Gunning, 
turning  to  Billy. 

"  Toffington,  Toffington,"  said  Billy,  dropping  his 
eye-glasses  with  a  movement  of  his  eyebrows.  He 
had  listened  to  the  story  without  the  slightest  com 
ment.  "  No,  Tom,  unless  he  is  one  of  those  upper 
county  men.  There  was  a  fellow  I  met  in  London 
last  year — "  (Billy  pronounced  it  "  larst  yarh,"  to 
Oliver's  infinite  amusement)  "  with  some  such  name 
as  that.  He  and  I  went  over  to  Kew  Gardens  with 
the  Duke  of ." 

Gunning  instantly  turned  around  with  an  impa 
tient  gesture — nobody  ever  listened  to  one  of  Billy's 

108 


A  MESSAGE   OF  IMPORTANCE 

London  stories,  they  being  the  never-ending  jokes 
around  Kennedy  Square — faced  the  General  again, 
much  to  Oliver's  regret,  who  would  have  loved  above 
all  things  to  hear  Billy  descant  on  his  English  ex 
periences. 

"  Do  you,  General,  know  anybody  named  Toffing 
ton?  "  asked  Tom. 

"  Xo,  Gunning — but  here  comes  Clayton,  he  knows 
everybody  in  the  State  that  is  worth  knowing.  "What 
you  have  told  me  is  most  extraordinary — most  extra 
ordinary,  Gunning.  It  only  goes  to  show  how  neces 
sary  it  is  for  every  man  to  be  prepared  for  emer 
gencies  of  this  kind.  You  should  never  go  unarmed, 
sir.  You  had  a  very  narrow  escape — a  very  narrow 
escape,  Gunning.  Here,  Clayton — come  over  here." 

Oliver  pulled  his  face  into  long  lines.  The  picture 
of  Gunning  taking  a  drink  with  a  man  who  a  moment 
before  had  tried  to  blow  the  top  of  his  head  off,  and 
the  serious  way  in  which  the  coterie  about  the  table 
regarded  the  incident,  so  excited  the  boy's  risibles 
that  he  would  have  laughed  outright  had  not  his  eye 
rested  on  the  Colonel  walking  toward  him. 

The  Colonel,  evidently,  did  not  hear  McTavish's 
call.  His  mind  was  occupied  with  something  much 
more  important.  He  had  been  finishing  a  game  of 
whist  upstairs,  and  the  mahogany-colored  Cerberus 
had  not  dared  to  disturb  him  until  the  hand  was 
played  out.  The  fact  that  young  Oliver  Horn  had 
'  109 


THE  FOETUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

called  to  see  him  at  such  an  hour  and  in  such  a  plac« 
had  greatly  disturbed  him.  He  felt  sure  that  some 
thing  out  of  the  ordinary  had  happened. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  cried,  as  Oliver  rose  to  meet 
him,  "  I  have  this  instant  heard  you  were  here,  or 
I  never  should  have  kept  you  waiting  a  moment. 
Nothing  serious — nothing  at  home  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Colonel.  Only  a  word  from  mother, 
sir.  I  missed  you  at  the  bank  and  Mr.  Stiger  thought 
that  I  might  better  come  here,"  and  he  delivered  his 
mother's  message  in  a  low  voice  and  resumed  his 
seat  again. 

The  Colonel,  now  that  his  mind  was  at  rest,  dropped 
into  a  chair,  stroked  his  goatee  with  his  thumb  and 
forefinger,  and  ran  over  in  his  mind  the  sum  of  his 
engagements. 

"  Tell  your  dear  mother,"  he  said,  "  that  I  will 
do  myself  the  honor  of  calling  upon  her  on  my  way 
home  late  this  afternoon.  Nothing  will  give  me 
greater  pleasure.  Now  stay  awhile  with  me  and  let 
me  order  something  for  you,  my  boy,"  and  he  beck 
oned  to  one  of  the  brown-coated  servants  who  had 
entered  the  room  with  a  fresh  tray  for  the  Gunning 
table. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Colonel ;  I  ought  not  to  stop," 
Oliver  replied,  in  an  apologetic  way,  as  he  rose  from 
his  seat.  "  I  really  ought  to  go  back  and  tell  mother," 
and  with  a  grasp  of  Clayton's  hand  and  a  bow  to  one 

110 


A  MESSAGE   OF  IMPORTANCE 

or  two  men  in  the  room  who  were  watching  his  move 
ments — the  Colonel  following  him  to  the  outer  door 
- — Oliver  took  himself  off,  as  was  the  duty  of  one  so 
young  and  so  entirely  out  of  place  among  a  collec 
tion  of  men  all  so  knowing  and  distinguished. 


CHAPTER   VI 

AMOS   COBB'S    ADVICE 

In  full  justice  to  the  Chesapeake  Club  the  scribe 
must  admit  that  such  light-weights  as  Billy  Talbot, 
Tom  Gunning,  and  Carter  Thorn  did  not  fairly  rep 
resent  the  standing  of  the  organization.  Many  of 
the  most  cultivated  and  enlightened  men  about  Ken 
nedy  Square  and  the  neighboring  country  enjoyed 
its  privileges;  among  them  not  only  such  men  as 
Richard  Horn,  Nathan  Gill,  the  Chief -Justice  of 
the  State,  and  those  members  of  the  State  Legislat 
ure  whose  birth  was  above  reproach,  but  most  of 
the  sporting  gentry  of  the  county,  as  well  as  many 
of  the  more  wealthy  planters  who  lived  on  the  Bay 
and  whose  houses  were  opened  to  their  fellow-mem 
bers  when  the  ducks  wrere  flying. 

Each  man's  lineage,  occupation,  and  opinions  on 
the  leading  topics  of  the  time  were  as  well  known  to 
the  club  as  to  the  man  himself.  Any  new-comer  pre 
senting  himself  for  membership  was  always  subjected 
to  the  severest  scrutiny,  and  had  to  be  favorably 
passed  upon  by  a  large  majority  of  the  committee  be 
fore  a  sufficient  number  of  votes  could  be  secured  for 
his  election. 

112 


AMOS  COBB'S  ADVICE 

The  only  outsider  elected  for  years  had  been 
Amos  Cobb,  of  Vermont,  the  abolitionist,  as  he  was 
generally  called,  who  invariably  wore  black  broad 
cloth,  and  whose  clean-shaven  face — a  marked  con 
trast  to  the  others — with  its  restless  black  eyes, 
strong  nose,  and  firm  mouth,  was  as  sharp  and  hard 
as  the  rocks  of  his  native  State.  His  election  to  full 
membership  of  the  Chesapeake  Club  was  not  due  to 
his  wealth  and  commercial  standing — neither  of 
these  would  have  availed  him — but  to  the  fact  that 
he  nad  married  a  daughter  of  Judge  Wharton  of 
Wharton  Hall,  and  had  thus,  by  reason  of  his  alli 
ance  with  one  of  the  first  families  of  the  State,  been 
admitted  to  all  the  social  privileges  of  Kennedy 
Square.  This  exception  in  his  favor,  however,  had 
never  crippled  Cobb's  independence  nor  stifled  his 
fearlessness  in  expressing  his  views  on  any  one  of  the 
leading  topics  of  the  day.  The  Vermonter  had 
worked  with  his  hands  when  a  boy  on  his  father's 
farm,  and  believed  in  the  dignity  of  labor  and  the 
blessings  of  self-support.  He  believed,  too,  in  the 
freedom  of  all  men,  black  and  white,  and  looked  upon 
slavery  as  a  crime.  He  expressed  these  sentiments 
openly  and  unreservedly,  and  declared  that  no  matter 
how  long  he  might  live  South  he  would  never  cease 
to  raise  his  voice  against  a  system  which  allowed  a 
man — as  he  put  it — "  to  sit  down  in  the  shade  and  fan 
himself  to  sleep  while  a  lot  of  niggers  whose  bodies 

113 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

he  owned  were  sweating  in  a  corn-field  to  help  feed 
and  clothe  him." 

These  sentiments,  it  must  be  said,  did  not  add  to 
his  popularity,  although  the  time  had  not  yet  arrived 
when  he  would  have  been  thrown  into  the  street 
for  uttering  them. 

Nathan  Gill  was  a  daily  visitor.  He  was  just 
mounting  the  club  steps,  his  long  pen-wiper  cloak 
about  his  shoulders,  as  Oliver,  after  his  interview  with 
Colonel  Clayton,  passed  down  the  street  on  his  way 
back  to  his  mother.  Nathan  shook  hands  with  the 
Colonel,  and  the  two  entered  the  main  room,  and 
seated  themselves  at  one  of  the  tables. 

Billy  Talbot,  who  had  moved  to  the  window,  and 
who  had  been  watching  Oliver  until  he  disappeared 
around  the  corner,  dropped  his  eye-glass  with  that 
peculiar  twitch  of  the  upper  lip  which  no  one  could 
have  imitated,  and  crossed  the  room  to  where  Na 
than  and  Colonel  Clayton  had  taken  their  scats. 
Waggles,  the  scrap  of  a  Skye  terrier,  who  was  never 
three  feet  from  Billy's  heels,  instantly  crossed  with 
him.  After  Billy  had  anchored  himself  and  had  as 
sumed  his  customary  position,  with  his  feet  slightly 
apart,  Waggles,  as  was  his  habit,  slid  in  and  sat 
down  on  his  haunches  between  his  master's  gaiters. 
There  he  lifted  his  fluffy  head  and  gazed  about  him. 
The  skill  with  which  Mr.  Talbot  managed  his  dog 
was  only  equalled  by  the  dexterity  with  which  he 

114 


AMOS  COBB'S  ADVICE 

managed  his  eye-glass;  he  never  inadvertently  stepped 
on  the  one  nor  unconsciously  let  slip  the  other.  This 
caused  Mr.  Talbot  considerable  mental  strain,  but  as 
it  was  all  to  which  he  ever  subjected  himself  he  stood 
•the  test  bravely. 

"  Who  is  that  young  man,  Colonel  ?  "  Billy  began, 
as  he  bent  his  head  to  be  sure  that  Waggles  was  in 
position.  He  had  been  abroad  while  Oliver  was 
growing  up,  and  so  did  not  recognize  him. 

"  That's  Richard  Horn's  son,"  the  Colonel  said, 
without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  paper.  The  Colo 
nel  never  took  Billy  seriously. 

"  And  a  fine  young  fellow  he  is,"  broke  in  Na 
than,  straightening  himself  proudly. 

"  Hope  he  don't  take  after  his  father,  Gill.  By 
the  way,  what's  that  old  wisionary  doing  now?  " 
drawled  Billy,  throwing  back  the  lapels  of  his  coat, 
and  slapping  his  checked  trousers  with  his  cane. 
"  Larst  time  you  talked  to  me  about  him  he  had  some 
machine  with  w'eels  and  horse-shoe  magnets,  didn't 
he  ?  He  hasn't  been  in  here  for  some  time,  so  I  know 
he's  at  work  on  some  tomfoolery  or  other.  Amaz 
ing,  isn't  it,  that  a  man  of  his  blood,  with  a  cellar  of 
the  best  Madeiwa  in  the  State,  should  waste  his  time 
on  such  things.  Egad!  I  cawn't  understand  it." 
Some  of  Billy's  expressions,  as  well  as  his  accent, 
came  in  with  his  clothes.  "  Now,  if  I  had  that  Ma 
deiwa,  do  you  know  what  I'd  do  with  it?  I'd " 

115 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  Perfectly,  Billy,"  cried  a  man  at  the  next  table, 
who  was  bending  over  a  game  of  chess.  "  You'd 
drink  it  up  in  a  week."  Talbot  had  never  been 
known  by  any  other  name  than  Billy,  and  never 
would  be  as  long  as  he  lived. 

When  the  laugh  had  subsided,  Nathan,  whose 
cheeks  were  still  burning  at  the  slighting  way  in 
which  Billy  Talbot  had  spoken  of  Richard,  and  who 
had  sat  hunched  up  in  his  chair  combing  the  white 
hair  farther  over  his  ears  with  his  long,  spare  fingers, 
a  habit  with  him  when  he  was  in  deep  thought,  lifted 
his  head  and  remarked,  quietly,  addressing  the  room 
rather  than  Talbot: 

"  Richard's  mind  is  not  on  his  cellar;  he's  got 
something  to  think  of  besides  Madeira  and  cards  and 
dogs."  And  he  looked  toward  Waggles.  "  You 
will  all,  one  day,  be  proud  to  say  that  he  lived  in  our 
town.  Richard  is  a  genius,  one  of  the  most  remark 
able  men  of  the -day,  and  everybody  outside  of  this 
place  knows  it;  you  will  be  compelled  to  admit  it  yet. 
I  left  him  only  half  an  hour  ago,  and  he  is  just  per 
fecting  a  motor,  gentlemen,  which  will 

"  Does  it  go  yet,  Nathan?  "  interrupted  Cobb,  who 
was  filling  a  glass  from  a  decanter  which  a  brown- 
coated  darky  had  brought  him.  Cobb's  wife  was 
Nathan's  cousin,  and,  therefore,  he  had  a  right  to  be 
familiar.  "  I  went  to  see  his  machine  the  other 
day,  but  I  couldn't  make  anything  out  of  it.  Horn 

116 


AMOS  COBB'S  ADVICE 

is  a  little  touched  here,  isn't  he  ?  "  and  he  tapped  his 
forehead  and  smiled  knowingly. 

"  No,  Amos,  the  motor  was  not  running  when  I 
left  the  shop,"  answered  Nathan,  dryly  and  with  some 
dignity,  "  but  it  will  be,  he  assured  me,  perhaps  by 
to-morrow."  He  could  fight  Billy  Talbot,  but  he 
never  crossed  swords  with  Cobb,  never  in  late 
years.  Cobb  was  the  one  man  in  all  the  world,  he 
once  told  Richard,  with  whom  he  had  nothing  in 
common. 

Oh,  to-morrow?  "  And  Cobb  whistled  as  he  put 
down  the  decanter  and  picked  up  the  day's  paper. 
It  was  one  of  Cobb's  jokes — this  "  to-morrow  "  of 
his  neighbors.  "  What  was  a  Northern  man's  to 
day  was  always  a  Southern  man's  to-morrow,"  he 
would  say.  "  I  hope  this  young  man  of  whom  you 
speak  so  highly  is  not  walking  in  the  footsteps  of 
this  genius  of  a  father?  He  looks  to  me  like  a 
young  fellow  that  had  some  stuff  in  him  if  anybody 
would  bring  it  out." 

The  half -concealed  sneer  in  Cobb's  voice  grated  also 
on  old  Judge  Bowman,  who  threw  down  his  book  and 
looked  up  over  his  bowed  spectacles.  He  was  a  testy 
old  fellow,  writh  a  Burgundy  face  and  shaggy  white 
hair,  a  chin  and  nose  that  met  together  like  a  par 
rot's,  and  an  eye  like  a  hawk.  It  was  one  of  his  prin 
ciples  to  permit  none  of  his  intimates  to  speak  ill  of 
his  friends  in  his  hearing.  Criticisms,  therefore,  by 

117 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

an  outsider  like  Cobb  were  especially  obnoxious  to 
him. 

"  Richard  Horn's  head  is  all  right,  Mr.  Cobb,  and 
so  is  his  heart,"  he  exclaimed  in  an  indignant  tone. 
"  As  for  his  genius,  sir — Gill  is  within  the  mark. 
He  is  one  of  the  remarkable  men  of  our  day.  You 
are  quite  right,  too,  about  his  young  son,  who  has 
just  left  here.  He  has  all  the  qualities  that  go  to 
make  a  gentleman,  and  many  of  those  which  will 
make  a  jurist.  He  is  now  studying  law  with  my  asso 
ciate,  Judge  Ellicott — a  profession  ennobled  by  his 
ancestors,  sir,  and  one  for  which  what  you  call  his 
*  stuff,'  but  which  we,  sir,  call  his  '  blood,'  especially 
fits  him.  You  Northern  men,  I  know,  don't  believe 
in  blood.  We  do  down  here.  This  young  man  comes 
of  a  line  of  ancestors  that  have  reflected  great  credit 
on  our  State  for  more  than  a  hundred  years,  and 
he  is  bound  to  make  his  mark.  His  grandfather  on 
his  mother's  side  was  our  Chief  Justice  in  1810,  and 
his  great-grandfather  was " 

"  That's  just  what's  the  matter  with  most  of  you 
Southerners,  Judge,"  interrupted  Cobb,  his  black 
eyes  snapping.  "  You  think  more  of  blood  than  you 
do  of  brains.  We  rate  a  man  on  Northern  soil  by 
what  he  does  himself,  not  what  a  bundle  of  bones 
in  some  family  burying-ground  did  for  him  before 
he  was  born.  Don't  you  agree  with  me,  Clayton? " 

"  I  can't  say  I  do,  Cobb,"  replied  the  Colonel, 
118 


AMOS  COBB'S  ADVICE 

slowly,  stirring  his  toddy.  "  I  never  set  foot  on  you? 
soil  but  once,  and  so  am  unfamiliar  with  your  ways." 
He  never  liked  Cobb.  "  He's  so  cursedly  practical, 
and  so  proud  of  it,  too,"  he  would  often  say;  "  and 
if  you  will  pardon  me,  sir — a  trifle  underbred." 

"  "When  was  that?  "  asked  Cobb,  looking  over  the 
top  of  his  paper. 

"  That  was  some  years  ago,  when  I  chased  a 
wounded  canvas-back  across  the  Susquehanna  River, 
and  had  to  go  ashore  to  get  him;  and  I  want  to  tell 
yoif,  sir,  that  what  you  call  '  your  soil '  was  damned 
disagreeable  muck.  I  had  to  change  my  boots  when 
I  got  back  to  my  home,  and  I've  never  worn  them 
since."  And  the  Colonel  crushed  the  sugar  in  his 
glass  with  his  spoon  as  savagely  as  if  each  lump  were 
the  head  of  an  enemy,  and  raised  the  mixture  to  his 
mouth. 

Amos's  thin  lips  curled.  The  high  and  lofty  am. 
of  these  patricians  always  exasperated  him.  The 
shout  of  laughter  that  followed  the  Colonel's  wply 
brought  the  color  to  his  cheeks. 

"  Chased  him  like  a  runaway  nigger,  I  suppose, 
Clayton,  didn't  you?  and  wrung  his  neck  when  you 
got  him — "  retorted  Amos,  biting  his  lips. 

"  Of  course,  like  I  would  any  other  piece  of  my 
property  that  tried  to  get  away,  or  as  I  would  wring 
the  neck  of  any  man  who  would  help  him — "  And 
the  Colonel  looked  meaningly  at  the  Vermonter  and 

119 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

drained  his  glass  with  a  gulp.  Then  smothering  his 
anger,  he  moved  away  to  the  window,  where  he 
watched  Mr.  Talbot,  who  had  just  left  the  club  and 
who  at  the  moment  was  standing  on  the  corner  mak 
ing  his  daily  afternoon  inspection  of  the  two  con 
necting  streets;  an  occupation  which  Billy  varied  by 
saluting  each  new-comer  with  a  slap  of  his  cane  on 
his  checker-board  trousers  and  a  stentorian  "  Bah 
Jove!  "  Waggles  meanwhile  squatting  pensively  be 
tween  his  gaiters. 

When  an  hour  later  the  Colonel  presented  himself 
at  the  Horn  mansion,  no  trace  of  this  encounter  with 
Cobb  was  in  his  face  nor  in  his  manner.  Men  did 
not  air  their  grievances  in  their  own  nor  anyone's 
else  home  around  Kennedy  Square. 

Mrs.  Horn  met  him  with  her  hand  extended.  She 
had  been  watching  for  Oliver's  return  with  a  degree 
of  impatience  rarely  seen  in  her.  She  had  hoped  that 
the  Colonel  would  have  called  upon  her  before  he 
went  to  his  office,  and  could  not  understand  his  delay 
antil  Oliver  had  given  his  account  of  the  morning 
mishaps.  She  was  too  anxious  now  to  chide  him.  It 
was  but  another  indication  of  his  temperament,  she 
thought — a  fault  to  be  corrected  with  the  others  that 
threatened  his  success  in  life. 

Holding  fast  to  the  Colonel's  hand  she  drew  him 
to  one  of  the  old  haircloth  sofas  and  told  him  the 
whole  story. 

130 


AMOS  COBB'S  ADVICE 

"Do  not  give  the  mortgage  a  thought,  my  deaf 
Bailie,"  the  Colonel  said,  in  his  kindest  manner, 
when  she  had  finished  speaking,  laying  his  hand  on 
her  wrist.  "  My  only  regret  is  that  it  should  have 
caused  you  a  moment's  uneasiness.  I  know  that  our 
bank  has  lately  been  in  need  of  a  large  sum  of 
money,  and  this  loan,  no  doubt,  was  called  in  by 
the  board.  But  it  will  be  all  right — if  not  I  will 
provide  for  it  myself." 

"  Ko — I  do  not  want  that,  and  Richard,  if  he 

» 

knew,  would  not  be  willing  either.  Tell  me,  please, 
how  this  money  is  loaned,"  and  she  turned  and  looked 
earnestly  into  his  face.  "  What  papers  are  passed, 
and  who  signs  them?  I  have  never  had  anything  to 
do  with  such  matters,  and  you  must  explain  it  all 
clearly." 

"  A  note  signed  by  Richard  and  made  payable  on 
a  certain  date  was  given  to  the  bank,  and  the  mort 
gage  was  deposited  as  security." 

"  And  if  the  note  is  not  paid?  " 

u  Then  the  property  covered  by  the  mortgage  is 
sold,  and  the  bank  deducts  its  loan — any  balance, 
of  course,  is  paid  over  to  Richard." 

"  And  when  the  sale  is  put  off — what  is  done 
then?" 

"  A  new  note  is  given,"  and  here  the  Colonel 
stopped  as  if  in  doubt,  "  and  sometimes  a  second  name 
PS  placed  on  the  note  increasing  the  security.  But, 

121 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Sallie,  dear,  do  not  let  this  part  of  it  ever  again  cross 
your  mind.  I  will  attend  to  it  should  it  become 
necessary.  It  is  not  often,"  and  the  Colonel  waved 
his  hand  gallantly,  "  that  a  Clayton  can  do  a  Horn 
a  service." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  friend,  and  it  is  just  like  you 
to  wish  to  do  it,  but  this  I  cannot  agree  to.  I  have 
thought  of  another  way  since  you  have  been  talking 
to  me.  Would  it — "  and  she  stopped  and  looked 
down  on  the  floor,  "  would  it  be  of  any  use  if  I  signed 
a  note  myself?  This  house  we  live  in  is  my  own,  as 
you  know,  and  would  be  an  additional  security  to 
the  bank  if  anything  should  happen." 

The  offer  was  so  unusual  that  the  Colonel  caught 
his  breath.  He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment,  but  her 
eyes  never  wavered.  He  felt  instantly  that,  however 
lightly  he  might  view  the  subject,  the  matter  was  in 
tensely  serious  with  her.  The  Colonel  half  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  with  a  bow  that  in  Kennedy  Square  had 
earned  for  him  the  title  of  "  the  Chesterfield  of  his 
time,  sir,"  placed  his  hand  on  his  heart. 

"  My  dear  Sallie,"  he  said,  "  not  a  member  of  the 
board  could  refuse.  It  would  at  once  remove  any 
obstacle  the  directors  might  have." 

"  Thank  you,  then  we  will  leave  it  so,  and  I  will 
have  the  papers  prepared  at  once." 

"  And  is  this  Richard's  advice  ?  "  the  Colonel  vent 
ured  to  ask,  slowly  regaining  his  seat.  There  were 

122 


AMOS  COBB'S  ADVICE 

some  misgivings  still  lingering  in  his  Chesterfieldian 
mind  as  to  whether  the  proudest  man  he  knew, 
gentle  as  he  was,  would  not  forbid  the  whole 
transaction. 

"  No.  He  does  not  know  of  my  purpose,  and  you 
will  please  not  tell  him.  He  only  knows  that  I  am 
opposed  to  allowing  the  property  to  be  sold,  and  he 
has  promised  me  that  he  will  take  no  steps  in  the 
matter  without  my  consent.  All  I  want  you  to  do 
now  is  to  tell  him  that  the  bank  has  decided  to  let 
the  matter  stand.  This  obligation  hereafter  will  be 
between  me  and  the  board,  and  I  will  pledge  myself 
to  carry  it  out.  And  now,  one  thing  more  before  you 
go,  and  I  ask  this  because  you  have  seen  him  grow 
up  and  I  know  you  love  him.  What  shall  I  do 
with  Oliver?" 

The  Colonel  again  caught  his  breath.  Gallant  gen 
tleman  of  the  old  school,  as  he  was,  with  a  profound 
respect  for  the  other  sex,  the  question  startled  him. 
According  to  his  experience  and  traditions,  the  fa 
thers  generally  looked  after  the  welfare  of  the  sons 
and  found  them  places  in  life — not  the  mothers. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  with  him?  "  he  asked, 
quietly. 

"  I  want  him  to  go  to  work.  I  am  afraid  this 
life  here  will  ruin  him." 

"  Why,  I  thought  he  was  studying  law  with  Elli- 
cott."  The  announcement  could  not  have  been  very 

123 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

surprising  to  the  Colonel.  He  doubtless  knev? 
how  much  time  Oliver  spent  at  Judge  Ellicott's 
office. 

"  He  no  doubt  thinks  he's  studying,  dear  friend, 
but  he  really  spends  half  his  time  in  old  Mr.  Crocker's 
studio,  who  puts  the  worst  possible  notions  into  his 
head,  and  the  balance  of  his  time  he  is  with  your 
Sue,"  and  she  smiled  faintly. 

"  For  which  you  can  hardly  blame  him,  dear  lady," 
and  the  Colonel  bent  his  head  graciously. 

"  No,  for  she  is  as  sweet  as  she  can  be,  and  you 
know  I  love  her  dearly,  but  they  are  both  children, 
and  will  be  for  some  years.  You  don't  want  to  sup 
port  them,  do  you?  and  you  know  Richard  can't," 
and  there  flashed  out  from  her  eyes  one  of  those 
quizzical  glances  which  the  Colonel  remembered  so 
well  in  her  girlhood. 

The  Colonel  nodded  his  head,  but  he  did  not  com 
mit  himself.  He  had  never  for  a  moment  imagined 
that  Oliver's  love-affair  would  go  as  far  as  that,  and, 
then  again,  he  knew  Sue. 

"  What  do  you  suggest  doing  with  him?  I  will 
help,  of  course,  in  any  way  I  can,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  Mrs.  Horn  sat  watching  every 
expression  that  crossed  his  face. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  not  fully  made  up  my 
mind.  I  have  been  greatly  disturbed  over  Oliver. 
He  seems  to  be  passing  through  one  of  those  danger- 

124 


AMOS  COBB'S  ADVICE 

ous  crises  which  often  come  to  a  boy.  What  do  you 
think  of  my  sending  him  to  New  York?  " 

"  The  North,  Sallie !  Why,  you  wouldn't  send 
Oliver  up  North,  would  you?  " 

The  announcement  this  time  gave  the  Colonel  so 
genuine  a  shock  that  it  sent  the  blood  tingling  to 
his  cheeks.  Really,  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  Horn 
family  were  beyond  his  comprehension!  Evident 
ly  Richard's  vagaries  had  permeated  his  house 
hold. 

"  I  do  not  like  the  influence  of  the  North  on  our 
young  men,  my  dear  Madam."  The  Colonel  spoke 
now  with  great  seriousness  and  with  some  formality, 
and  without  any  of  the  Chesterfieldian  accompani 
ments  of  tone  or  gesture.  "  If  he  were  my  boy, 
I  should  keep  him  here.  He  is  young  and  light- 
hearted,  I  know,  and  loves  pleasure,  but  that  will  all 
come  out  of  him.  Let  him  stay  with  Ellicott;  he  will 
bring  him  out  all  right.  There  is  a  brusqueness  and 
a  want  of  refinement  among  most  Northern  men  that 
have  always  grated  on  me.  You  can  see  it  any  day 
in  Amos  Cobb." 

As  he  spoke  a  slight  flush  overspread  his  listener's 
face.  The  positiveness  of  his  tone,  she  thought,  car 
ried  with  it  a  certain  uncomplimentary  criticism  of 
her  suggestion.  The  Colonel  saw  it,  and,  as  if  in 
apology  and  to  prove  his  case,  added,  in  a  gentler 
tone:  "Only  this  afternoon  at  the  club  I  heard 

125 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Cobb  speaking  in  the  most  outrageous  manner  about 
our  most  treasured  institutions.  It  is  not  his  fault 
perhaps.  It  is  the  fault  of  his  breeding,  but  it  is  un 
bearable  all  the  same.  Keep  Oliver  here.  He  has  a 
most  engaging  and  lovable  nature,  is  as  clean  and 
sweet  as  a  girl,  and  I  haven't  a  doubt  but  what  he 
will  honor  both  you  and  his  blood.  Take  my  word 
for  it,  and  keep  him  at  home.  He  is  young  yet,  barely 
twenty-two — there  is  plenty  of  time  for  him."  And 
the  Colonel  rose  from  the  sofa,  lifted  Mrs.  Horn's 
fingers  to  his  lips  and  bowed  himself  out. 

The  Colonel  only  told  the  truth,  as  he  saw  it. 
In  his  day  and  generation  men  of  twenty-two 
were  but  boys,  and  only  gray-beards  ruled  the 
State  and  counting-house.  The  Senators  were  indeed 
grave  and  reverend  seigniors,  and  the  merchants,  in 
their  old-fashioned  dress-coats,  looked  more  like  dis 
tinguished  diplomats  than  buyers  and  sellers  of 
produce.  In  those  days,  too,  the  young  man  with  a 
mustache  was  thought  presuming  and  dangerous,  and 
-.the  bank  who  would  have  selected  a  cashier  under 
forty  would  have  caused  a  run  on  its  funds  in  a 
week  after  the  youth  had  been  appointed  to  his  posi 
tion. 

After  the  Colonel's  departure  Mrs.  Horn  sat  in 
deep  thought.  The  critical  tones  of  his  voice  still 
lingered  in  her  memory.  But  her  judgment  had  not 
been  shaken  nor  was  her  mind  satisfied.  Oliver  still 

126 


AMOS  COBB'S  ADVICE 

troubled  her.  The  Colonel's  advice  might  be  right, 
but  she  dared  not  rely  upon  it. 

The  next  day  she  sent  for  Amos  Cobb:  Malachi 
took  the  message  this  time,  not  Oliver.  Cobb  came 
on  the  minute.  He  was  greatly  surprised  at  Mrs. 
Horn's  note,  for  although  his  wife  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  Mrs.  Horn's,  and  he  himself  would  have 
been  welcome,  he  was  seldom  present  at  any  of  the 
functions  of  the  house  and  could  not  be  considered 
one  of  its  intimate  guests.  He  did  not  like  music,  he 
said  to  his  wife,  when  urged  to  go,  and,  as  he  did 
not  play  chess  or  drink  Madeira,  he  preferred  to  stay 
at  home. 

Malachi  relieved  Amos  of  his  hat,  and  conducted 
him  into  Mrs.  Horn's  presence  with  rather  a  formal 
bow — quite  different  from  the  low  salaam  with  which 
he  had  greeted  Colonel  Clayton.  "  Dat  bobobalish'- 
nest,  Mister  Cobb,  jes'  gone  in  de  parlor,"  he  said 
to  Aunt  Hannah  when  he  regained  the  kitchen, 
"  Looks  like  he  lived  on  parsimmons,  he  dat  sour." 

Mrs.  Horn  received  her  visitor  cordially,  but  with 
a  reserve  which  she  had  not  maintained  toward  the 
Colonel,  for  Cobb  had  never  represented  to  her  any 
thing  but  a  money  standard  pure  and  simple.  It  was 
only  when  the  Colonel  had  mentioned  his  name,  and 
then  only  because  of  her  urgent  need  of  just  such 
sound  practical  advice  as  she  knew  he  eould  give 
that  she  had  determined  to  seek  his  services — quite 

127 


,       THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

as  ^he  would  have  consulted  an  architect  or  an 
attorney. 

The  Vermonter  took  his  seat  on  the  extreme  edge 
of  the  sofa,  squared  his  shoulders,  pulled  up  the 
points  of  his  high  collar,  touched  together  the  tips  of 
all  his  fingers,  and  looked  straight  at  his  hostess. 

"  I  am  greatly  obliged  to  you  for  coming,"  she  be 
gan,  "  for  I  know  how  busy  you  are,  but  I  have  a 
question  to  ask  of  you  which  I  feel  sure  you  can 
answer  better  than  anyone  I  know.  It  is  about  my 
flon  Oliver.  I  am  going  to  be  perfectly  frank  with 
pou,  and  I  want  you  to  be  equally  frank  with  me." 
And  she  summed  up  Oliver's  aims,  temptations,  and 
failings  with  a  skill  that  gained  the  Vermonter's 
closest  attention.  "  With  all  this,"  she  continued, 
"  he  is  affectionate,  loves  me  dearly,  and  has  never 
disobeyed  me  in  his  life.  It  is  his  love  of  change 
that  worries  me — his  instability — one  thing  one  mo 
ment,  and  another  the  next.  It  seems  to  me  the  only 
way  to  break  this  up  is  to  throw  him  completely  on 
his  own  resources  so  that  he  may  realize  for  once 
what  life  really  means.  Now  tell  me — "  and  she 
looked  searchingly  into  Cobb's  face,  as  if  eager  to 
note  the  effect  of  her  question — "  if  he  were  your 
only  son,  would  you,  in  view  of  all  I  have  told  you, 
send  him  to  New  York  to  make  his  start  in  life,  or 
would  you  keep  him  here  ?  " 

The  Vermonter's  face  had  begun  to  lighten  as  she 
128 


AMOS  COBB'S  ADVICE 

progressed,  and  had  entirely  cleared  when  he  learned 
why  he  had  been  sent  for.  He  had  been  afraid,  when 
he  received  her  note,  that  it  had  been  about  the  mort 
gage.  Cobb  was  chairman  of  the  Loan  Committee  at 
the  bank,  had  personally  called  attention  to  Richard's 
note  being  overdue,  and  had  himself  ordered  its  pay 
ment. 

"  My  two  boys  are  at  school  in  Vermont,  Madam," 
he  answered,  slowly. 

"  But  Oliver  must  earn  his  own  living,"  she  said, 
earnestly.  "  His  father  will  have  nothing  to  give 
him." 

Cobb  made  no  reply.  He  was  not  surprised.  Most 
all  of  these  aristocratic  Southerners  were  on  their  last 
legs.  He  was  right  about  the  note,  he  said  to  him 
self — it  was  just  as  well  to  have  it  paid — and  he 
made  a  mental  memorandum  to  inquire  about  it  as 
soon  as  he  reached  his  office,  and  have  it  pressed  for 
settlement  at  once.  Business  matters  must  be  kept 
intact. 

"  What  do  you  want  him  to  do,  Madam?  "  he  asked, 
looking  at  her  keenly  from  under  his  bushy  eye 
brows. 

"  Anything  to  earn  his  bread,"  she  replied,  in 
a  decided  tone. 

Cobb  passed  his  hand  over  his  face,  pinched  his 
chin  with  his  thumb  and  forefinger,  and  looked  out 
of  the  window.  The  answer  pleased  him.  It  pleased 

129 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVEE  HOKN 

him,  too,  to  be  consulted  by  the  Horns  on  a  matter 
of  this  kind.  It  pleased  him  most  of  all  to  realize  that 
when  these  aristocrats  who  differed  with  him  politi 
cally  got  into  a  financial  hole  they  had  to  send  for 
him  to  help  pull  them  out. 

For  a  moment  the  Vermonter  remained  in  deep 
thought.  "  Here  is  a  Southern  woman,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "  with  some  common-sense  and  with  a  head 
on  her  shoulders.  If  her  husband  had  half  her  brains 
I'd  let  the  mortgage  stand."  Then  he  turned  and 
faced  her  squarely,  his  eyes  boring  into  hers. 

"  Send  him  to  New  York,  by  all  means,  Madam, 
or  anywhere  else  out  of  here,"  he  said,  firmly,  but 
with  a  kindly  tone  in  his  voice.  "  When  you  decide, 
let  me  know — I  will  give  him  a  letter  to  a  business 
friend  of  mine  who  lives  on  the  Hudson,  a  short 
distance  above  the  city,  who  may  help  him.  But  let 
me  advise  you  to  send  him  at  once.  I  saw  your  son 
yesterday  at  the  club,  and  he  exactly  fits  your  meas 
ure,  except  in  one  respect.  He's  got  more  grit  in  him 
than  you  give  him  credit  for..  I  looked  him  over 
pretty  carefully,  and  if  he  gets  in  a  tight  place  you 
needn't  worry  about  him,,  He'll  pull  out,  or  my  name 
isn't  Cobb.  And  now  one  thing  more — "  and  he  rose 
stiffly  from  the  sofa  and  buttoned  up  his  coat — 
"  don't  give  him  any  pocket-money.  Chuck  him  out 
neck  and  heels  into  the  world  and  let  him  shift  for 
himself.  That's  the  way  I  was  treated,  and  that's  the 
way  I  got  on.  Good-day." 

130 


CHAPTER  VII 

A   SEAT   IN   UNION    SQUAEE 

"Within  a  day's  journey  of  Kennedy  Square  lay 
another  wide  breathing-space,  its  winding  paths  worn 
smooth  by  countless  hurrying  feet. 
4  Over  its  flat  monotony  straggled  a  line  of  gnarled 
willows,  marking  the  wanderings  of  some  guileless 
brook  long  since  swallowed  up  and  lost  in  the  mazes 
of  the  great  city  like  many  another  young  life  fresh 
from  green  fields  and  sunny  hill-sides.  This  desert  of 
weeds  and  sun-dried,  yellow  grass,  this  kraal  for 
ecraggly  trees  and  broken  benches,  breasted  the  rush 
of  the  great  city  as  a  stone  breasts  a  stream,  dividing 
its  current — one  part  swirling  around  and  up  Broad 
way  to  the  hills  and  the  other  flowing  eastward  toward 
Harlem  and  the  Sound.  Around  its  four  sides,  front 
ing  the  four  streets  that  hemmed  it  in,  ran  a  massive 
iron  railing,  socketed  in  stone  and  made  man-proof 
and  dog-proof  by  four  great  iron  gates.  These  gates 
were  opened  at  dawn  to  let  the  restless  in,  and  closed 
at  night  to  keep  the  weary  out. 

Above  these  barriers  of  stone  and  iron  no  joyous 
magnolias   lifted    their    creamy   blossoms;    no    shy 

131 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

climbing  roses  played  hide-and-seek,  blushing  scarlet 
when  caught.  Along  its  foot-worn  paths  no  drowsy 
Moses  ceased  his  droning  call;  no  lovers  walked  for 
getful  of  the  world;  no  staid  old  gentlemen  wan 
dered  idly,  their  noses  in  their  books. 

All  day  long  on  its  rude  straight-backed  benches 
and  over  its  thread-bare  turf  sprawled  unkempt  wom 
en  with  sick  babies  from  the  shanties;  squalid,  noisy 
children  from  the  rookeries ;  beggars  in  rags,  and  now 
and  then  some  hopeless  wayfarer — who  for  the  mo 
ment  had  given  up  his  search  for  work  or  bread  and 
who  rested  or  slept  until  the  tap  of  a  constable's  club 
brought  him  to  consciousness  and  his  feet. 

At  night,  before  the  gates  were  closed — ten  o'clock 
was  the  hour — there  could  always  be  found,  under 
its  dim  lamps,  some  tired  girl,  sitting  in  the  light  for 
better  protection  while  she  rested,  or  some  weary 
laborer  on  the  way  home  from  his  long  day's  work, 
and  always  passing  to  and  fro,  swinging  his  staff, 
bullying  the  street-rats  who  were  playing  tag  among 
the  trees,  and  inspiring  a  wholesome  awe  among 
those  hiding  in  the  shadows,  lounged  some  guardian 
of  the  peace  awaiting  the  hour  when  he  could  drive 
the  inmates  to  the  sidewalk,  and  shut  the  gates  be 
hind  them  with  a  bang. 

Here  on  one  of  these  same  straight-backed  wooden 
seats  one  September  night — a  night  when  the  air  was 
heavy  with  a  blurred  haze,  through  which  the  lampa 

132 


A  SEAT  IN  UNION   SQUARE 

peered  as  in  a  fog,  and  the  dust  lay  thick  upon  the 
leaves — sat  our  Oliver. 

Outside  the  square — all  about  the  iron  fence,  and 
surging  past  the  big  equestrian  statue,  could  be  heard 
the  roar  and  din  of  the  great  city — that  maelstrom 
which  now  seemed  ready  to  engulf  him.  No  sound 
of  merry  laughter  reached  him,  only  rumbling  of 
countless  wheels,  the  slow  thud  of  never-ending, 
crowded  stages  lumbering  over  the  cobbles,  the  cries 
of  the  hucksters  selling  hot  corn,  and  the  ceaseless 
sctapings  of  a  thousand  feet. 

He  had  sat  here  since  the  sun  had  gone  down 
watching  the  crowds,  wondering  how  they  lived  and 
how  they  had  earned  their  freedom  from  such  cares 
as  were  now  oppressing  him.  His  heart  was  heavy. 
A  long-coveted  berth,  meaning  self-support  and  in 
dependence  and  consequent  relief  to  his  mother's 
heart,  had  been  almost  within  his  grasp.  It  was  not 
the  place  he  had  expected  when  he  left  home.  It  was 
much  more  menial  and  unremunerative.  But  he  had 
outlived  all  his  bright  hopes.  He  was  ready  now  to 
take  anything  he  could  get  to  save  him  from  return 
ing  to  Kennedy  Square,  or  what  would  be  still  worse 
• — from  asking  his  mother  for  a  penny  more  than  she 
had  given  him.  Rather  than  do  this  he  would  sweep 
the  streets. 

As  he  leaned  forward  on  the  bench,  his  face  in  his 
bands,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  thoughts  we#$ 

133 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

t>ack  to  his  father's  house.  He  knew  what  they  were 
all  doing  at  this  hour;  he  could  see  the  porches 
crowded  with  the  boys  and  girls  he  loved,  their  bright 
voices  filling  the  night-air,  Sue  in  the  midst  of 
them,  her  curls  about  her  face.  He  could  see  his 
father  in  the  big  chair  reading  by  the  lamp,  that  dear 
old  father  who  had  held  his  hands  so  tenderly  and 
spoken  with  such  earnestness  the  day  before  he  had 
left  Kennedy  Square. 

"  Your  mother  is  right,"  Richard  had  said.  "  I 
am  glad  you  are  going,  my  son;  the  men  at  the 
North  are  broader-minded  than  we  are  here,  and  you 
will  soon  find  your  place  among  them.  Great  things 
are  ahead  of  us,  my  boy.  I  shall  not  live  to  see  them, 
but  you  will." 

He  could  see  his  mother,  too,  sitting  by  the  win 
dow,  looking  out  upon  the  trees.  He  knew  where 
her  thoughts  lay.  As  his  mind  rested  on  her  pale 
face  his  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  Dear  old  mother," 
he  said  to  himself — "  I  am  not  forgetting,  dearie.  I 
am  holding  on.  But  oh,  if  I  had  only  got  the  place 
to-day,  how  happy  you  would  be  to-morrow." 

A  bitter  feeling  had  risen  in  his  heart,  when  he 
had  opened  the  letter  which  had  brought  him  the 
news  of  the  loss  of  this  hoped-for  situation.  "  This 
is  making  one's  way  in  the  world,  is  it?  "  he  had  said 
to  himself  with  a  heavy  sigh.  Then  the  calm  eyes  of 
his  mother  had  looked  into  his  again,  and  he  had 

134 


A  SEAT  IX  imiOK   SQUARE 

felt  the  pressure  of  the  soft  hand  and  heard  the  tones 
of  her  voice: 

"  You  may  have  many  discouragements,  my  son, 
and  will  often  be  ready  to  faint  by  the  way,  but  stick 
to  it  and  you  will  win." 

His  bitterness  had  been  but  momentary,  and  he 
had  soon  pulled  himself  together,  but  his  every  re 
source  seemed  exhausted  now.  He  had  counted  so 
on  the  situation — that  of  a  shipping-clerk  in  a  dry- 
goods  store — promised  him  because  of  a  letter  that 
k6  carried  from  Amos  Cobb's  friend.  But  at  the  last 
moment  the  former  clerk,  who  had  been  laid  off  be 
cause  of  sickness,  had  been  taken  back,  and  so  the 
weary  search  for  work  must  begin  again. 

And  yet  with  everything  against  him  Oliver  had 
no  thought  of  giving  up  the  struggle.  Even  Amos 
Cobb  would  have  been  proud  of  him  could  he  have 
seen  the  dogged  tenacity  with  which  he  clung  to  his 
purpose — a  tenacity  due  to  his  buoyant,  happy 
temperament,  or  to  his  devotion  to  his  mother's 
wishes;  or  (and  this  is  more  than  probable)  to  some 
drops  of  blood,  perhaps,  that  had  reached  his  own 
through  his  mother's  veins — the  blood  of  that  Major 
with  the  blue  and  buff  coat,  whose  portrait  hung  in 
the  dining-room  at  home,  and  who  in  the  early  days 
had  braved  the  flood  at  Trenton  side  by  side  with  the 
Hero  of  the  Bronze  Horse  now  overlooking  the 
bench  on  which  Oliver  sat ;  or  it  may  be  of  that  other 

135 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIYEE  HORH 

ancestor  in  the  queue  whose  portrait  hung  over  the 
mantel  of  the  club  and  who  had  served  his  State  with 
distinction  in  his  day. 

Whatever  the  causes  of  these  several  effects,  the 
one  dominating  power  which  now  controlled  him 
was  his  veneration  for  his  mother's  name  and  honor. 
For  on  the  night  succeeding  Amos  Cobb's  visit  after 
she  had  dropped  upon  her  knees  and  poured  out  her 
heart  in  prayer  she  had  gone  into  Oliver's  bedroom, 
and  shutting  the  door  had  told  him  of  the  mortgage; 
of  his  father's  embarrassment,  and  the  danger  they 
suffered  of  losing  the  farm  —  their  only  hope  for 
their  old  age  —  unless  success  crowned  Richard's 
inventions.  With  his  hand  fast  in  hers  she 
had  given  him  in  exact  detail  all  that  she  had  done 
to  ward  off  this  calamity ;  recounting,  word  by  word, 
what  she  had  said  to  the  Colonel,  lowering  her  voice 
almost  to  a  whisper  as  she  spoke  of  the  solemn 
promise  she  had  made  him — involving  her  own  and 
her  husband's  honor — and  the  lengths  to  which  she 
was  prepared  to  go  to  keep  her  obligations  to  the 
bank. 

Then,  her  hand  still  clasping  his,  the  two  sitting 
side  by  side  on  his  bed,  his  wondering,  startled  eyes 
looking  into  hers — for  this  world  of  anxiety  was  an 
unknown  world  to  him — she  had  by  slow  stages  made 
him  realize  how  necessary  it  was  that  he,  their  only 
son,  and  their  sole  dependence,  should  begin  at  once 

136 


A   SEAT  IN   UNION   SQUAKE 

to  earn  his  daily  bread;  not  only  on  his  own  account 
but  on  hers  and  his  father's.  In  her  tenderness  she 
had  not  told  him  that  the  real  reason  was  his  instabil 
ity  of  purpose:  fearing  to  wound  his  pride,  she  had 
put  it  solely  on  the  ground  of  his  settling  down  to 
some  work. 

"  It  is  the  law  of  nature,  my  son,"  she  had  added. 
"  Everything  that  lives  must  work  to  live.  You  have 
only  to  watch  the  birds  out  here  in  the  Square  to  con 
vince  you  of  that.  Notice  them  to-morrow,  when. 
y5u  go  out.  See  how  busy  they  are ;  see  how  long  it 
takes  for  any  one  of  them  to  get  a  meal.  You  are 
old  enough  now  to  begin  to  earn  your  own  bread, 
and  you  must  begin  at  once,  Ollie.  Your  father  can 
no  longer  help  you.  I  had  hoped  your  profession 
would  do  this  for  you,  but  that  is  not  to  be  thought 
of  now." 

Oliver,  at  first,  had  been  stunned  by  it  all.  He 
had  never  before  given  the  practical  side  of  life  a 
single  thought.  Everything  had  gone  along  smoothly 
from  his  earliest  remembrance.  His  father's  house 
had  been  his  home  and  his  protection ;  his  room  with 
its  little  bed  and  pretty  hangings  and  all  its  comforts 
— a  room  cared  for  like  a  girl's — had  always  been 
open  to  him.  He  had  never  once  asked  himself  how 
these  things  came  about,  nor  why  they  continued. 
These  revelations  of  his  mother's  therefore  were  like 
the  sudden  opening  of  a  door  covering  a  vault  over 

137 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

which  he  had  walked  unconsciously  and  U'hich  now, 
for  the  first  time,  he  saw  yawning  beneath  him. 

"  Poor  daddy,"  were  his  first  words.  "  I  never 
knew  a  thing  about  his  troubles;  he  seems  always  so 
happy  and  so  gentle.  I  am  so  sorry — dear  daddy — 
dear  dad —  "  he  kept  repeating. 

And  then  as  she  spoke  there  flashed  into  his  mind 
the  thought  of  his  own  hopes.  They  were  shattered 
now.  He  knew  that  the  art  career  was  dead  for  him, 
and  that  all  his  dreams  in  that  direction  were  over. 

He  was  about  to  tell  her  this,  but  he  stopped  be 
fore  the  words  were  formed.  He  would  not  add  his 
own  burden  to  her  sorrow.  ISTo,  he  would  bear  it 
alone.  He  would  tell  Sue,  but  he  would  not  tell  his 
mother.  I^ext  there  welled  up  in  his  heart  a  desire 
to  help  this  mother  whom  he  idolized,  and  this  father 
who  represented  to  him  all  that  was  kind  and  true. 

"  "What  can  I  do?  "Where  can  I  go,  dearie?  "  he 
cried  with  sudden  resolve.  "  Even  if  I  am  to  work 
with  my  hands  I  am  ready  to  do  it,  but  it  must  be 
away  from  here.  I  could  not  do  it  here  at  home 
with  everybody  looking  on;  no,  not  here!  not 
here!" 

This  victory  gained,  the  mother  with  infinite  tact, 
little  by  little,  unfolded  to  the  son  the  things  she  had 
planned.  Finally  with  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
smoothing  his  cheek  with  her  hands  she  told  him 
of  Amos  Cobb's  advice  and  of  his  offer,  adding: 

138 


A  SEAT  IN  UNION   SQUARE 

"  He  will  give  you  a  letter  to  his  friend  who  lives 
at  Haverstraw  near  New  York,  my  boy,  with 
whom  you  can  stay  until  you  get  the  situation  you 
want." 

The  very  impracticability  of  this  scheme  did  not 
weigh  with  her.  She  did  not  see  how  almost  hopeless 
would  be  the  task  of  finding  employment  in  an  un 
known  city.  Nor  did  the  length  of  time  her  son 
might  be  a  burden  on  a  total  stranger  make  any  dif 
ference  in  her  plans.  Her  own  home  had  always  been 
often  to  the  friends  of  her  friends,  and  for  any  length 
of  time,  and  her  inborn  sense  of  hospitality  made  it 
impossible  for  her  to  understand  any  other  condi 
tions.  Then  again  she  said  to  herself:  "  Mr.  Cobb 
is  a  thoroughly  practical  man,  and  a  very  kind  one. 
His  friend  will  welcome  Oliver,  or  he  would  not 
have  allowed  m/  son  to  go."  She  had  repeated, 
however,  no  word  of  the  Vermonter's  advice  "  to 
chuck  the  boy  out  neck  and  heels  into  the  world  and 
let  him  shift  for  himself,"  although  the  very  Spartan 
quality  of  the  suggestion,  in  spite  of  its  brusqueness, 
had  greatly  pleased  her.  She  could  not  but  recognize 
that  Amos  understood.  She  would  have  faced 
the  situation  herself  if  she  had  been  in  her  son's 
place;  she  said  so  to  herself.  And  she  hoped,  too, 
that  Oliver  would  face  it  as  bravely  when  the  time 
came. 

As  for  the  temptations  that  might  assail  her  boy 
139 


THE  FOETUSES  OF  OLIVEK  HORN 

in  the  great  city,  she  never  gave  them  a  thought. 
Neither  the  love  of  drink  nor  the  love  of  play  ran 
in  her  own  or  Richard's  veins — not  for  generations 
back.  a  One  test  of  a  gentleman,  my  son/'  Richard 
always  said,  "  lies  in  the  way  in  which  he  controls  his 
appetites — in  the  way  he  regards  his  meat  and  drink. 
Both  are  foods  for  the  mind  as  well  as  for  the  body, 
and  must  be  used  as  such.  Gluttons  and  drunkards 
should  be  classed  together."  ISTo,  her  boy's  heart 
might  lead  him  astray,  but  not  his  appetites,  and 
never  his  passions.  She  was  as  sure  of  that  as  she 
was  of  his  love. 

As  she  talked  on,  Oliver's  mind,  yielding  to  her 
stronger  will  as  clay  does  to  a  sculptor's  hand,  be 
gan  to  take  shape.  What  at  first  had  looked  like  a 
hardship  now  began  to  have  an  attractive  side.  Per 
haps  the  art  career  need  not  be  wholly  given  up.  Per 
haps,  too,  there  was  a  better  field  for  him  in  New 
York  than  here — old  Mr.  Crocker  had  always  told 
him  this.  Then,  too,  there  was  something  of  fascina 
tion  after  all,  in  going  out  alone  like  a  knight-errant 
to  conquer  the  world.  And  in  that  great  Northern 
city,  too,  with  its  rush  and  whirl  and  all  that  it  held 
for  him  of  mystery !  How  many  times  had  Mr.  Crock 
er  talked  to  him  by  the  hour  of  its  delights.  And  Elli- 
cott's  chair!  Yes,  he  could  get  rid  of  that.  And 
Sue?  Sue  would  wait — she  had  promised  him  she 
would;  no,  there  was  no  doubt  about  Suel 

14-ft 


would  love  him  all  the  better  if  he  fought  his  battle 
alone.  Only  the  day  before  she  had  told  him  of 
the  wonderful  feats  of  the  White  Knight,  that  the 
new  English  poet  had  just  written  about  and  that 
everybody  in  Kennedy  Square  was  now  reading. 

Above  all  there  was  the  delight  of  another  sensa 
tion — the  sensation  of  a  new  move.  This  really 
pleased  him  best.  He  was  apparently  listening  to 
his  mother  when  these  thoughts  took  possession  of 
him,  for  his  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  hers,  but  he  heard 
oftly  a  word  now  and  then.  It  was  his  imagination 
that  swayed  him  now,  not  his  will  nor  his  judgment. 
He  would  have  his  own  adventures  in  the  great  city 
and  see  the  world  as  Mr.  Crocker  had  done,  he  said 
to  himself. 

"  Yes,  dearie,  I'll  go,"  he  answered  quickly. 
"  Don't  talk  any  more  about  it.  I'll  do  just  as  you 
want  me  to,  and  I'll  go  anywhere  you  say.  But  about 
the  money  for  my  expenses?  Can  father  give  it  to 
me?  "  he  asked  suddenly,  a  shade  of  anxiety  crossing 
his  face. 

"  We  won't  ask  your  father,  Ollie,"  she  said,  draw 
ing  him  closer  to  her.  She  knew  he  would  yield  to 
her  wishes,  and  she  loved  him  the  better  for  it,  if 
that  were  possible.  "  I  have  a  little  money  saved 
which  I  will  give  you.  You  won't  be  long  finding 
a  good  place." 

"  And  how  often  can  I  come  back  to  you?  "  he 
141 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

cried,  starting  up.  Until  now  this  phase  of  the  situ 
ation  had  not  entered  his  mind. 

"  Not  often,  my  boy — certainly  not  until  you  can 
afford  it.  It  is  costly  travelling.  Maybe  once  or 
twice  a  year." 

"  Oh,  then  there's  no  use  talking,  I  can't  go.  I 
can't — can't,  be  away  from  you  that  long.  That's 
going  to  be  the  hardest  part."  He  had  started  from 
his  seat  and  stood  over  her,  a  look  of  determination 
on  his  face. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  can,  my  son,  and  you  will,"  she 
replied,  as  she  too  rose  and  stood  beside  him,  stop 
ping  the  outburst  of  his  weakness  with  her  calm  voice, 
and  quieting  and  soothing  him  with  the  soft  touch 
of  her  hand,  caressing  his  cheek  with  her  fingers  as 
she  had  so  often  done  when  he,  a  baby,  had  lain  upon 
her  breast. 

Then  with  a  smile  on  her  face,  she  had  kissed  him 
good-night,  closed  the  door,  and  staggering  along  the 
corridor  steadying  herself  as  she  walked,  her  hand 
on  the  walls,  had  thrown  herself  upon  her  bed  in  an 
agony  of  tears,  crying  out : 

"  Oh,  my  boy — my  boy!  How  can  I  give  you  up? 
And  I  know  it  is  forever!  " 

And  now  here  he  is  foot-sore  and  heart-sore,  sit 
ting  in  Union  Square,  New  York,  the  roar  of  the 
great  city  in  his  ears,  and  here  he  must  sit  until  the 
cattle-barge  which  takes  him  every  night  to  the  house 

142 


A  SEAT  IN  UNION    SQUARE 

of  Amos  Cobb's  friend  is  ready  to  start  on  her 
voyage  up  the  river. 

He  sat  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  his  elbows  on 
his  knees,  not  stirring  until  a  jar  on  the  other  end 
of  the  bench  roused  him.  A  negro  hod-carrier, 
splashed  with  plaster,  and  wearing  a  ragged  shirt  and 
a  crownless  straw  hat,  had  taken  a  seat  beside  him. 
The  familiarity  of  the  act  startled  Oliver.  No  negro 
wayfarer  would  have  dared  so  much  in  his  own 
Square  at  home. 

The  man  reached  forward  and  drew  closer  to  his 
own  end  of  the  bench  a  bundle  of  sawed  ends  and 
bits  of  wood  which  he  had  carried  across  the  parl, 
on  his  shoulder. 

Oliver  watched  him  for  a  moment,  with  a  feeling 
amounting  almost  to  indignation.  "  Were  the  pov 
erty  and  the  struggle  of  a  great  city  to  force  such 
familiarities  upon  him,"  he  wondered.  Then  some 
thing  in  the  negro's  face,  as  he  wiped  the  perspiration 
from  his  forehead  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  pro 
duced  a  sudden  change  of  feeling.  "  "Was  this  man, 
too,  without  work?  "  Oliver  asked  himself,  as  he  felt 
the  negro's  weariness,  and  realized  for  the  first  time, 
ihe  common  heritage  of  all  men. 

"  Are  you  tired,  Uncle?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  a  little  mite.  I  been  a-totin'  dis  kindlin* 
from  way  up  yander  in  Twenty-third  Street  where 
the  circus  useter  be.  Dey's  buildin'  a  big  hotel  dert 

U3 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

now — de  Fifth  Avenue  dey  calls  it.  I'm  a-carryin* 
mortar  for  de  brick-layers  an'  somehow  dese  sticks 
is  monst'ous  heavy  after  workin'  all  day." 

"  Where  do  you  live  ? "  asked  Oliver,  his  eyes  on 
the  kindling-wood. 

"  Not  far  from  here,  sah;  little  way  dis  side  de 
Bow'ry.  Whar's  yo'r  home  ? "  And  the  old  man 
rose  to  his  feet  and  picked  up  his  bundle. 

The  question  staggered  Oliver.  He  had  no  home, 
really  none  that  he  could  call  his  own — not  now. 

"  Oh,  a  long  way  from  here,"  he  answered, 
thoughtfully,  without  raising  his  head,  his  voice  chok 
ing. 

The  old  negro  gazed  at  him  for  a  moment,  touched 
his  hat  respectfully,  and  walked  toward  the  gate. 
At  the  entrance  he  wheeled  about,  balanced  the  bun 
dle  of  wood  on  his  shoulder  and  looked  back  at  Oli 
ver,  who  had  resumed  his  old  position,  his  eyes  on 
the  ground.  Then  he  walked  away,  muttering: 

"  'Pears  like  he's  one  o'  my  own  people  calling  me 
uncle.  Spec'  he  ain't  been  long  from  his  mammy." 

Two  street-rats  now  sneaked  up  toward  Oliver, 
watched  him  for  a  moment,  and  whispered  to  each 
other.  One  threw  a  stone  which  grazed  Oliver's 
head,  the  other  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  yelled: 
"  Spad,  spad,"  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Oliver  under 
stood  the  epithet,  it  meant  that  he  wore  clean  linen, 
polished  shoes,  and  perhaps,  now  and  then,  a  pai* 

144 


A  SEAT  IN  UNION   SQUAEE 

of  gloves.  He  had  heard  the  same  outcry  in  his  own 
city,  for  the  slang  of  the  street-rat  is  Volapiik  the 
world  over.  But  he  did  not  resent  the  assault.  He 
was  too  tired  to  chase  any  boys,  and  too  despondent 
to  answer  their  taunts. 

A  constable,  attracted  by  the  cries  of  the  boys,  now 
passed  in  front  of  him  swinging  his  long  staff.  He 
was  about  to  tap  Oliver's  knees  with  one  end  of  it, 
as  a  gentle  reminder  that  he  had  better  move  on, 
when  something  in  the  young  man's  face  or  appear 
ance  made  him  change  his  mind. 

"  Hi,  sonny,"  he  cried,  turning  quickly  and  facing 
Oliver,  "  yer  can't  bum  round  here  after  ten,  ye 
know.  Keep  yer  eyes  peeled  for  them  gates,  d'ye 
hear?" 

If  Oliver  heard  he  made  no  reply.  He  was  in  no 
mood  to  dispute  the  officer's  right  to  order  him  about. 
The  gates  were  not  the  only  openings  shut  in  his 
face,  he  thought  to  himself;  everything  Deemed 
closed  against  him  in  this  great  city.  It  was  not  so 
at  home  on  Kennedy  Square.  Its  fence,  was  a 
shackly,  moss-covered,  sagging  old  fence,  inter 
twined  with  honeysuckles,  full  of  holes  and  minus 
many  a  paling;  where  he  could  have  found  a  dozen 
places  to  crawl  through.  He  had  done  so  only  a  few 
weeks  before  with  Sue  in  a  mad  frolic  across  the 
Square.  Besides,  why  should  the  constable  speak  to 
him  at  all  ?  He  knew  all  about  the  hour  of  closing  the 

145 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

New  York  gates  without  the  policeman  reminding 
him  of  it.  Had  he  not  sat  here  every  night  waiting 
for  that  cattle-boat?  He  hated  the  place  cordially, 
yet  it  was  the  only  spot  in  that  great  city  to  which 
he  could  come  and  not  be  molested  while  he  waited 
for  the  barges.  He  always  selected  this  particular 
bench  because  it  was  nearest  the  gate  that  led  to  the 
bronze  horse.  He  loved  to  look  at  its  noble  con 
tour  silhouetted  against  the  sky  or  illumined  by  the 
street-lamps,  and  was  seldom  too  tired  to  be  inspired 
by  it.  He  had  never  seen  any  work  in  sculpture  to 
be  compared  to  it,  and  for  the  first  few  days  after 
his  arrival,  he  was  never  content  to  end  the  day's 
tramping  until  he  stood  beneath  it,  following  its  out 
lines,  his  heart  swelling  with  pride  at  the  thought 
that  one  of  his  own  nationality  and  not  a  Euro 
pean  had  created  it.  He  wished  that  his  father,  who 
believed  so  in  the  talent  of  his  countrymen,  could 
see  it. 

Suddenly,  while  he  was  still  resenting  the  famil 
iarity  of  the  constable,  his  ears  were  assailed  by  the 
cry  of  a  dog  in  pain ;  some  street-rat  had  kicked  him. 

Instantly  Oliver  was  on  his  feet.  A  small  spaniel 
was  running  toward  him,  followed  by  half  a  dozen 
boys  who  were  pelting  him  with  stones. 

Oliver  sprang  forward  as  the  dog  crouched  at  his 
feet;  caught  him  up  in  his  arms  and  started  for  the 
rats,  who  dodged  behind  the  tree-trunks,  calling 

146 


A  SEAT  IN  UNION   SQUAKE 

"  Spad,  spad,"  as  they  ran.    Then  came  the  voice  of 
the  same  constable. 

"  Hi,  yer  can't  bring  that  dog  in  here." 

"  He's  not  my  dog,  somebody  has  hurt  him,"  said 
Oliver  in  an  indifferent  tone,  examining  carefully  the 
dog's  legs  to  see  if  any  bones  were  broken. 

"  If  that  ain't  your  dog  what  yer  doin'  with  him? 
See  here,  I  been  a-watchin'  ye.  Yer  got  ter  move 
on  or  I'll  run  ye  in.  D'ye  moind?  " 

Oliver's  eyes  flashed.  In  all  his  life  no  man  had 
evt r  doubted  his  word,  nor  had  anyone  ever  spoken 
to  him  in  such  terms. 

"  You  can  do  as  you  please,  but  I  will  take  care 
of  this  dog,  no  matter  what  happens.  You  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourself  to  see  him  hurt,  and  not  want 
to  protect  him.  You're  a  pretty  kind  of  an  officer." 

A  crowd  began  to  gather. 

Oliver  was  standing  with  the  dog  under  one  a^m 
holding  the  little  fellow  close  to  his  breast,  the  other 
bent  with  fist  tight  shut  as  if  to  defend  himself. 

"I  am,  am  I?  yer  moon-faced  spad!  I'll  show 
ye,"  and  he  sprang  toward  Oliver. 

"  Here  now,  Tim  Murphy,"  came  a  sharp  voice, 
"  kape  yer  hands  off  the  young  gintleman.  He  ain't 
a-doin'  nothin',  and  he  ain't  done  nothin'.  Thim 
divils  hit  the  dog,  I  seen  'em  myself." 

The  officer  turned  quickly  and  faced  a  big,  broad- 
shouldered  Irish  woman,  bare-headed,  her  sleeves 

147 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

rolled  up  to  her  elbows,  every  line  in  her  kindly  face 
replete  with  indignation. 

"  Don't  put  yer  hands  on  him,  or  I'll  go  to  th^ 
lock-up  an'  tell  McManus." 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it,  Mrs.  Mulligan?"  said  tht 
officer,  in  a  conciliatory  tone. 

"  Yes,  it's  me.  The  young  gintleman's  right.  It's 
the  b'ys  ye  oughter  club  into  shape,  not  be  foolin' 
yer  time  over  the  dog." 

"  "Well,  ye  know  it's  agin  the  rules  to  let  dogs  in 
side  the  gates,"  he  retorted  as  he  continued  his  stroll 
along  the  walk,  swinging  his  club  as  he  went,  puffing 
out  his  chest  and  cheeks  with  his  old  air  as  he  moved 
toward  the  gate. 

"  Yes,  an'  so  it's  agin  the  rules,"  she  called  after 
him,  "  to  have  them  rapscallions  yellin'  like  mad  an' 
howlin'  bloody  murder  when  a  body  comes  up  here 
to  git  a  breath  o'  air." 

"  Is  the  dog  hurt,  sir?  "  and  she  stepped  close  to 
Oliver  and  laid  her  big  hand  on  the  dog's  head,  as 
it  lay  nestling  close  to  Oliver's  side. 

M  No,  I  don't  think  so — he  would  have  been  if  I 
iiad  not  got  him." 

The  dog,  under  the  caress,  raised  his  head,  and  a 
slight  movement  of  his  tail  expressed  his  pleasure. 
Then  his  ears  shot  forward.  A  young  man  about 
Oliver's  own  age  was  rapidly  walking  up  the  path, 
with  a  quick,  springy  step,  whistling  as  he  came.  The 

148 


A   SEAT  IX  UNION   SQUAKE 

dog,  with  a  sudden  movement,  squirmed  himself 
from  under  Oliver's  arm  and  sprang  toward  him. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Mr.  Fred,  is  it?"  broke  out  the 
Woman,  "  and  it's  Miss  Margaret's  dog,  too.  Of 
course  it's  her  dog,  an'  I  was  that  dumb  I  didn't  know 
it.  But  it's  not  me  ye  can  thank  for  savin'  its  skin 
• — it's  the  young  gintleman  here.  Them  divils  would 
have  killed  it  but  for  him." 

"  Is  the  dog  yours,  sir?  "  asked  Oliver,  raising  his 
hat  with  that  peculiar  manner  of  his  which  always 
wo^i  him  friends  at  first  sight. 

"  No,  I  wish  it  were.  It's  Miss  Margaret  Grant's 
dog — one  of  our  students.  I  am  taking  care  of  it 
while  she  is  away.  The  little  rascal  ran  out  and  got 
into  the  Square  before  I  knew  it.  I  live  right  across 
the  street — you  can  see  my  house  from  here.  Miss 
Grant  will  be  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  protect 
ing  him." 

"  Oh,  don't  mention  it.  I  got  hold  of  him  just  in 
time,  or  these  ruffians  would  have  hurt  him.  I  think 
the  old  lady  here,  however,  is  most  to  be  thanked. 
We  might  both  have  been  locked  up,"  he  added,  smil 
ing,  "  if  she  had  not  interfered.  You  know  her,  it 
seems." 

"  Yes,  she's  Mother  Mulligan,  as  we  call  her. 
She's  janitress  of  the  Academy  of  Design,  where  I 
draw  at  night.  My  name's  Fred  Stone.  Come  over 
to  where  I  live — it's  only  a  step,"  and  he  looked 

149 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

straight  into  Oliver's  face,  his  big  blue  eyes  never 
wavering. 

"  Well,  I  will  if  you  don't  think  it's  too  late,"  and 
the  two  young  fellows,  with  a  wave  of  their  hands  to 
the  old  woman,  left  the  Square,  the  dog  bounding  be> 
fore  them. 

Within  the  hour — in  less  time  indeed,  for  the 
friendly  light  in  the  eyes  of  his  new-found  friend 
had  slione  straight  into  our  boy's  soul,  warming  and 
cheering  him  to  his  finger-tips,  opening  his  heart,  and 
bringing  out  all  his  secrets — Oliver  had  told  Fred  the 
story  of  his  fruitless  tramps  for  work;  of  his  moth 
er's  hopes  and  fears;  of  his  own  ambitions  and 
his  aims.  And  Fred,  his  own  heart  wide  open, 
had  told  Oliver  with  equal  frankness  the  story  of 
his  own  struggles;  of  his  leaving  his  father's  farm 
in  the  western  part  of  the  State,  and  of  his  giving 
up  everything  to  come  to  New  York  to  study  art. 

It  was  the  old,  old  story  of  two  chance  acquaint 
ances  made  friends  by  reason  of  the  common  ground 
of  struggle  and  privation  on  which  they  stood;  com 
rades  fighting  side  by  side  in  the  same  trenches  for 
the  same  end,  and  both  dreaming  of  the  morrow 
which  would  always  bring  victory  and  never  death. 
A  story  told  without  reserve,  for  the  disappointments 
of  life  had  not  yet  dulled  their  enthusiasm,  nor  had 
the  caution  acquired  by  its  many  bitter  experiences 
yet  checked  the  free  flow  of  their  confidences. 

150 


A   SEAT  IN  UNION   SQUARE 

To  Oliver,  in  his  present  despondent  mood,  the 
hand  held  out  to  him  was  more  than  the  hand  of  a 
comrade.  It  was  the  hand  of  a  strong  swimmer 
thrust  into  the  sea  to  save  a  drowning  man.  There 
were  others  then  besides  himself,  he  thought,  as  he 
grasped  it,  who  were  making  this  fight  for  bread  and 
glory;  there  was  something  else  in  the  great  city  be 
sides  cruelty  and  misery,  money-getting  and  money- 
spending — something  of  unselfishness,  sympathy  and 
love. 

"fhe  two  sat  on  the  steps  of  Fred's  boarding-house 
— that  house  where  Oliver  was  to  spend  so  many 
happy  days  of  his  after-life — until  there  was  only 
time  enough  to  catch  the  barge.  Reluctantly  he  bade 
his  new-found  comrade  good-by  and,  waving  his 
hand,  turned  the  corner  in  the  direction  of  the  dock- 

The  edge  of  Oliver's  cloud  had  at  last  caught  the 
light! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AN     OLD   SONG 

Not  only  had  the  sunshine  of  a  new  friendship 
illumined  the  edge  of  Oliver's  clouds,  but  before  the 
week  was  out  a  big  breeze  laden  with  success  had 
swept  them  so  far  out  to  sea,  that  none  but  the  clear 
est  of  skies  radiant  with  hope  now  arched  above  his 
happy  face. 

A  paste-board  sign  had  wrought  this  miracle. 

One  day  he  had  been  tramping  the  lower  parts  of 
the  city,  down  among  the  docks,  near  Coenties  Slip, 
looking  up  the  people  who  on  former  visits  had  said : 
"  Some  other  time,  perhaps,"  or  "  If  we  should  have 
room  for  another  man  we  will  be  glad  to  remember 
you,"  or  "  We  know  Mr.  Cobb,  and  shall  be  pleased," 
etc.,  etc.,  when  he  chanced  to  espy  a  strange  sign 
tacked  outside  a  warehouse  door,  a  sign  which  bore 
the  unheard-of-announcement — unheard  of  to  Oli 
ver,  especially  the  last  word,  "  SHIPPING  CLEKK 
WANTED." 

No  one,  for  weeks,  had  wanted  anything  that  Oli 
ver  could  furnish.  Strangely  enough  too,  as  he  after 
ward  discovered,  the  bullet-headed  Dutch  porter  had 

152 


AN   OLD   SONG 

driven  the  last  tack  into  the  clean,  white,  welcome 
face  of  the  sign  only  five  minutes  before  Oliver 
stopped  in  front  of  it.  Still  more  out  of  the  com 
mon,  and  still  more  incomprehensible,  was  the  reply 
made  to  him  by  the  head  salesman,  whom  he  found 
just  inside  the  door — a  wiry,  restless  little  man  with 
'two  keen  black  eyes,  and  a  perfectly  bald  head. 

"  Yes,  if  you  can  mark  boxes  decently ;  can  show 
any  references;  don't  want  too  much  pay,  and  can 
come  now.  We're  short  of  a  boy,  and  it's  our  busy 
sealbn." 

Oh!  blessed  be  Mr.  Crocker,  thought  Oliver,  as 
he  picked  up  a  marking-brush,  stirred  it  round  and 
round  in  the  tin  pot  filled  with  lamp-black  and  turpen 
tine,  and  to  his  own  and  the  clerk's  delight,  painted, 
on  a  clean  board,  rapidly  and  clearly,  and  in  new  let 
ters  too — new  to  the  clerk — the  full  address  of  the 
bald-headed  man's  employers: 

MORTON,   SLADE    &   CO., 
121  PEAEL  STREET,  NEW  YORK. 

More  amazing  still  were  the  announcements  made 
by  the  same  bald-headed  man  after  Oliver  had  shown 
him  Amos  Cobb's  recommendations:  Oliver  was  to 
come  to  work  in  the  morning,  the  situation  to  be  per 
manent  provided  Cobb  confirmed  by  letter  the  good 
wishes  he  had  previously  expressed,  and  provided 

153 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIYEE  HORN 

Mr.  Morton,  the  senior  partner,  approved  of  the  bald- 
head's  action;  of  which  the  animated  billiard-ball 
said  there  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  as  he,  the  ball,, 
had  charge  of  the  shipping  department,  and  was  re 
sponsible  for  its  efficiency. 

All  of  these  astounding,  incomprehensible  and 
amazing  occurrences  Oliver  had  written  to  his, 
mother,  ending  his  letter  by  declaring  in  his  enthusi 
asm  that  it  was  his  art,  after  all,  which  had  pulled 
him  through,  and  that  but  for  his  readiness  with  the 
brush,  he  would  still  be  a  tramp,  instead  of  "  rolling 
in  luxury  on  the  huge  sum  of  eight  dollars  a  week, 
with  every  probability  of  becoming  a  partner  in  the 
house,  and  later  on  a  millionnaire."  To  which  the 
dear  lady  had  replied,  that  she  was  delighted  to  know 
he  had  pleased  his  employers,  but  that  what  had 
pleased  her  most  was  his  never  having  lost  heart 
while  trying  to  win  his  first  fight,  adding:  "  The 
second  victory  will  come  more  easily,  my  darling  boy,, 
and  so  will  each  one  hereafter."  Poor  lady,  she 
never  knew  how  sore  that  boy's  feet  had  been,  nor 
how  many  times  he  had  gone  with  half  a  meal  or 
none  at  all,  for  fear  of  depleting  too  much  the  small 
store  she  had  given  him  when  he  left  home. 

With  his  success  still  upon  him,  he  had  sallied  forth 
to  call  upon  young  Fred  Stone  who  had  grasped  his 
hand  so  warmly  the  night  he  had  rescued  the  dog 
from  the  street-boys,  and  whose  sympathy  had  gone 

154 


AN  OLD  SO:NTG 

out  to  him  so  freely.  He  had  written  him  of  his  good 
fortune,  and  Fred  had  replied,  begging  him  to  cal?. 
upon  him,  and  had  appointed  this  same  Friday  night 
as  the  night  of  all  others  when  he  could  entertain 
him  best. 

But  Oliver  is  not  the  same  boy  who  said  good-by 
to  Fred  that  moonlight  night  the  week  before.  His 
'eyes  are  brighter;  his  face  is  a-glow  with  ill-con 
cealed  pleasure.  Even  his  step  shows  the  old-time 
spring  and  lightness  of  the  days  at  home — on  his  toes 
part  of  the  time,  as  if  restraining  an  almost  uncon 
trollable  impulse  to  stop  and  throw  one  or  two  hand 
springs  just  to  relieve  the  pressure  on  his  nerves. 

When  he  reached  the  bench  in  the  Square  where 
he  had  sat  so  many  nights  with  his  head  in  his  hands, 
one  of  those  quick  outbursts  of  enthusiasm  took  pos 
session  of  him,  the  kind  that  sets  young  hearts  sing 
ing  with  joy  when  some  sudden  shift  of  hope's  kalei 
doscope  opens  a  wide  horizon  brilliant  with  the  light 
of  future  success.  With  an  exclamation  of  boyish 
glee  he  plumped  himself  down  upon  the  hard  planks 
of  the  bench,  and  jumped  up  again,  pirouetting  on 
his  toe  and  slanting  his  hat  over  one  eye  as  if  in  a 
spirit  of  sheer  bravado  against  fate.  Then  he  saun 
tered  out  of  the  iron  gate  to  Fred's  house. 

Even  as  he  waited  on  the  stone  steps  of  Miss  Tee- 
turn's  boarding-house  for  the  dowdy  servant-girl's 
return — such  dirty,  unkempt  steps  as  they  were,  and 

155 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIYEK  HOKN 

such  a  dingy  door-plate,  spotted  with  rain  and  dust, 
not  like  Malachi's,  he  thought — he  could  hardly  re 
strain  himself  from  beating  Juba  with  his  foot,  a 
plantation  trick  Malachi  had  taught  him,  keeping 
time  the  while  with  the  palms  of  his  hands  on  his 
>  shapely  legs. 

Meanwhile  another  young  enthusiast  is  coming 
downstairs  three  steps  at  a  time,  this  one  bare 
headed,  all  out  of  breath,  and  without  a  coat,  who 
pours  out  his  heart  to  the  first  Juba-beating  enthu 
siast  as  the  two  climb  the  stairs  together  to  the  second 
enthusiast's  room  on  the  very  top  floor.  He  tells 
him  of  his  delight  at  seeing  him  again  and  of  the  lot 
of  fellows  waiting  to  welcome  him  under  the  sky 
light;  and  of  what  a  jolly  lot  the  "  Skylarkers  " 
feally  are;  and  of  Mr.  Slade,  Oliver's  employer, 
whom  Fred  knows  and  who  comes  from  Fred's  own 
town;  and  of  how  much  Mr.  Slade  likes  a  certain 
new  clerk,  one  Oliver  Horn,  of  Kennedy  Square,  he 
having  said  so  the  night  before,  this  same  Horn  being 
the  precise  individual  whose  arm  at  that  very  moment 
was  locked  in  Fred's  own  and  which  was  now  getting 
an  extra  squeeze  merely  for  the  purposes  of  identifi 
cation. 

All  of  this  Fred  poured  into  Oliver's  willing  ear 
without  stopping  to  take  breath,  as  they  mounted 
the  four  long  flights  of  stairs  that  led  to  the  top 
floor,  where,  under  the  roof,  there  lived  a  group  of 

156 


AN   OLD   SONG 

Bohemians  as  unique  in  their  personalities  as  could 
be  found  the  great  city  over. 

When  the  two  pairs  of  feet  had  at  last  reached 
the  last  flight  of  steps  under  the  flat  roof  of 
the  house,  the  "  Skylarkers "  were  singing  "  Old 
Dog  Tray  "  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  to  the  accom 
paniment  of  a  piano,  and  of  some  other  instruments, 
the  character  of  which  our  young  hero  failed  to  rec 
ognize,  although  the  strains  had  grown  louder  and 
louder  as  the  young  men  mounted  the  stairs. 

<^s  Oliver  stood  in  the  open  doorway  and  looked 
in  through  the  haze  of  tobacco-smoke  upon  the  group, 
he  instantly  became  conscious  that  a  new  world  had 
opened  before  him;  a  world,  as  he  had  always  pict 
ured  it,  full  of  mystery  and  charm,  peopled  by  a  race 
as  fascinating  to  him  as  any  Mr.  Crocker  had  ever 
described,  and  as  new  and  strange  as  if  its  members 
had  been  the  denizens  of  another  planet. 

The  interior  was  not  a  room,  but  a  square 
low-ceiled  hall  into  which  opened  some  six  or 
more  small  bedrooms,  slept  in,  whenever  sleep  was 
possible,  by  an  equal  number  of  Miss  Teetum's  board 
ers.  The  construction  and  appointments  of  this  open 
garret,  with  two  exceptions,  were  similar  to  those 
of  all  other  garrets  of  its  class :  it  had  walls  and  ceil 
ing,  once  whitewashed,  and  now  discolored  by  roof- 
leaks  from  a  weather-beaten  skylight;  its  floor  was 
bare  of  carpet,  and  its  well-worn  woodwork  was 

157 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

etained  with  time  and  use.  Chairs,  however,  were 
scarce,  most  of  the  boarders  and  their  guests  being 
seated  on  the  floor. 

The  two  exceptions,  already  noted,  were  some  crisp, 
telling  sketches,  big  and  little,  in  color  and  black-and- 
white,  the  work  of  the  artist  members  of  this  coterie, 
which  covered  every  square  inch  of  the  leak-stained 
surface  of  ceiling  and  wall,  and  the  yellow-keyed, 
battered  piano  which  occupied  the  centre  of  the  open 
space  and  which  stood  immediately  under  two  flaring 
gas-jets.  At  the  moment  of  Fred's  and  Oliver's  ar 
rival  the  top  of  this  instrument  was  ornamented  by 
two  musically  inclined  gentlemen,  one  seated  cross- 
legged  like  a  Turk,  voicing  the  misfortunes  of  Dog 
Tray,  the  other,  with  his  legs  resting  on  a  chair,  beat 
ing  time  to  the  melody  with  a  cane.  This  cane,  at 
short  intervals,  he  brought  down  upon  the  shoulders 
of  any  ambitious  member  who  attempted  to  usurp  his 
place.  The  chief  object  of  the  gathering,  so  far  as 
Oliver's  hasty  glance  could  determine,  was  undoubt 
edly  the  making  of  as  much  noise  as  possible. 

While  the  young  men  stood  looking  into  the  room 
waiting  for  the  song  to  cease  prior  to  Oliver's  entry 
and  introduction,  Fred  whispered  hurriedly  into  his 
guest's  ear  some  of  the  names,  occupations,  and  char 
acteristics  of  the  group  before  him. 

The  cross-legged  man  with  the  long  neck,  droo^ 
ing  mustache,  and  ropy  black  hair,  was  none  other 

158 


AN   OLD   SONG 

than  Bowdoin,  the  artist — the  only  American  who 
had  taken  a  medal  at  Munich  for  landscape,  but  who 
was  now  painting  portraits  and  starving  slowly  in 
consequence.  He  mounted  to  this  eyry  every  Fri 
day  night,  so  as  to  be  reminded  of  the  good  old  days 
at  Schwartz's.  The  short,  big-mustached,  bald- 
headed  man  swinging  the  cane,  was  Bianchi — Julius 
Bianchi — known  to  the  Skylarkers  as  "  The  Pole," 
and  to  the  world  at  large  as  an  accomplished  lithog 
rapher  and  maker  of  mezzotints.  Bianchi  was  a 
pi&ce  of  the  early  artistic  driftwood  cast  upon  our 
shores — an  artist  every  inch  of  him — drawing  from 
life,  and  handling  the  crayon  like  a  master. 

The  pale-faced  young  fellow  at  the  piano,  with 
bulging  watch-crystal  eye-glasses  and  hair  tucked  be 
hind  his  ears,  was  the  well-known,  all-round  musician, 
"\Venby  Simmons — otherwise  known  as  "  Pussy  Me 
ow  " — a  name  associated  in  some  way  with  the  strings 
of  his  violin.  This  virtuoso  played  in  the  orchestra 
at  the  Winter  Garden,  and  occupied  the  bedroom 
next  to  Fred's. 

The  clean-shaven,  well-groomed  young  English 
man  standing  behind  Simmons  and  holding  a  coal 
scuttle  half  full  of  coal  which  he  shook  with  deafen 
ing  jangle  to  help  swell  the  chorus,  was  "  My  Lord 
Cockburn  "  so  called — an  exchange  clerk  in  a  bank 
ing-house.  He  occupied  the  room  opposite  Fred's. 

With  the  ending  of  the  chorus  Fred  Stone  stepped 
159 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

into  the  open  space  with  his  arm  through  that  of  his 
guest,  and  the  noise  was  hushed  long  enough  for  the 
entire  party  to  welcome  the  young  Southerner — a 
welcome  which  kindled  into  a  glow  of  enthusiasm 
when  they  caught  the  look  of  frank  undisguised  pleas 
ure  which  lighted  his  face,  and  noticed  the  unaffected 
bow  with  which  he  entered  the  room,  shaking  hands 
with  each  one  as  Fred  introduced  him — and  all  with 
that  warm,  hearty,  simple,  courteous  manner  peculiar 
to  his  people. 

The  slight  ceremony  over — almost  every  Friday 
night  some  new  guest  was  welcomed — Fred  seated 
himself  on  the  floor  with  his  back  to  the  whitewashed 
wall,  although  two  chairs  were  at  once  offered  them, 
and  made  room  for  Oliver,  who  settled  down  beside 
him. 

As  they  sat  leaning  back,  Oliver's  eyes  wandering 
over  the  room  drinking  in  the  strange,  fascinating 
scene  before  him,  as  bewildering  as  it  was  unexpected, 
Fred — now  that  they  were  closer  to  the  scene  of 
action,  again  whispered  or  shouted,  as  the  suddenly 
revived  noise  permitted,  into  Oliver's  alert  and 
delighted  ears,  such  additional  facts  concerning  the 
other  members  present  as  he  thought  would  interest 
his  guest. 

The  fat  man  behind  the  piano  astride  of  a  chair,  a 
pipe  in  his  mouth  and  a  black  velvet  skull-cap  on  his 
head,  was  Tom  Waller,  the  sheep-painter — Thomaa 

160 


AN   OLD   SONG 

Brandon  "Waller,  he  signed  it — known  as  the  "Wal 
rus.  He,  too,  was  a  boarder  and  a  delightful  fellow, 
although  an  habitual  grumbler.  His  highest  ambi 
tion  was  to  affix  an  1ST.  A.  at  the  end  of  his  name,  but 
he  had  failed  of  election  by  thirty  votes  out  of  forty 
cast.  That  exasperating  event  he  had  duly  celebrat 
ed  at  PfafFs  in  various  continued  libations  covering  a 
week,  and  had  accordingly,  on  many  proper  and  im 
proper  occasions,  renewed  and  recelebrated  the  event, 
breathing  out  meanwhile,  between  his  pewter  mugs, 
scathing  anathemas  against  the  "  idiots  "  who  had 
defeated  him  out  of  his  just  rights,  and  who  were 
stupid  enough  to  believe  in  the  school  of  Verboeck- 
hoeven.  Slick  and  shiny  Verboeckhoeven,  "  the  me 
chanic,"  he  would  call  him,  with  his  fists  closed  tight, 
who  painted  the  hair  on  every  one  of  his  sheep  as  if  it 
were  curled  by  a  pair  of  barber's  tongs — not  dirty 
and  woolly  and  full  of  suggestions  as,  of  course,  he 
• — the  great  Waller,  alone  of  all  living  animal-paint 
ers — depicted  it.  All  of  which,  to  "Waller's  credit, 
it  must  be  parenthetically  stated,  these  same  "idiots" 
learned  to  recognize  in  after  years  as  true,  when  that 
distinguished  animal-painter  took  a  medal  at  the 
Salon  for  the  same  picture  which  the  Jury  of  $".  A.'s 
had  rejected  at  their  Spring  Exhibition. 

The  irreproachable,  immaculate  young  person, 
with  eyes  half-closed,  lying  back  in  the  arm-chair — - 
one  which  he  had  brought  from  his  own  room — was 

161 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  Raffle-shirt  "  Tomlins.  He  was  the  only  member 
who  dressed  every  day  for  dinner,  whether  he  was 
going  out  afterward  or  not — spike-tailed  coat,  white 
tie  and  all.  Tomlins  not  only  knew  intimately  a 
lady  of  high  degree  who  owned  a  box  at  the  Academy 
of  Music,  in  Fourteenth  Street,  and  who  invited  him 
to  sit  in  it  at  least  once  a  season,  but  he  had  besides 
a  large  visiting  acquaintance  among  the  people  of 
quality  living  on  Irving  Place.  A  very  agreeable 
and  kindly  little  man  was  "  Ruffle-shirt  "  Tomlins — 
so  Fred  said — the  sort  of  a  little  man  whose  philoso 
phy  of  life  was  based  on  the  possibility  of  catching 
more  innocent,  unwary  flies  with  honey  than  he  could 
with  vinegar,  and  who,  in  consequence,  always  said 
nice  things  about  everybody — sometimes  in  a  loud 
tone  enough  for  everybody  to  hear.  This  last  state 
ment  of  Fred's  Tomlins  confirmed  ten  minutes  later 
by  remarking,  in  a  stage  whisper  to  Waller: 

"  Did  you  see  how  that  young  Mr.  Horn  entered 
the  room?  Nobody  like  these  high-bred  Southern 
ers,  my  boy.  Quite  the  air  of  a  man  of  the  world — 
hasn't  he?  "  To  all  of  which  the  distinguished  sheep- 
painter  made  no  other  reply  than  a  slight  nod  of  the 
head,  as  he  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  toward  the  ceiling 
— Tomlins's  immaculate  appearance  being  a  constant 
offence  to  the  untidy  painter. 

The  member  with  the  stentorian  voice,  who  was 
roaring  out  his  opinions  to  Cockburn,  Fred  contin* 

162 


AN   OLD   SONG 

ued,  was  "  Fog-horn  "  Cranch,  the  auctioneer.  His 
room  was  next  to  Waller's.  His  weaknesses  were 
gay-colored  waistcoats  and  astounding  cravats.  He 
varied  these  portions  of  his  dress  according  to  wind, 
weather,  and  sales  of  the  day — selecting  blue  for  sun 
shiny  mornings,  black  for  rainy  ones,  green  for  pict- 
'tires,  red  for  household  furniture,  white  for  real 
estate,  etc.  Into  these  color-schemes  he  stuck  a  vari 
ety  of  scarf-pins — none  very  valuable  or  rare,  but 
each  one  distinct — a  miniature  ivory  skull,  for  in 
stance,  with  little  garnets  for  eyes,  or  tiny  onyx  dice 
\vith  sixes  on  all  sides. 

The  one  man  of  all  the  others  most  beloved  by  Fred 
and  every  other  boarder,  guest,  and  habitue  that 
gathered  around  the  piano  in  this  garret-room,  and 
now  conspicuous  by  his  absence,  he  having  gone  to 
the  circus  opposite  the  Academy  of  Music,  and  not 
likely  to  return  until  late — a  fact  greatly  regretted 
by  Fred  who  made  this  announcement  with  lowered 
voice  to  Oliver — was  a  young  Irishman  by  the  name 
of  McFudd — Cornelius  McFudd,  the  life  of  the 
house,  and  whom  Waller,  in  accordance  with  the  gen 
eral  custom,  had  christened  "  Continuous  McFud- 
dle,"  by  reason  of  the  nature  of  the  Hibernian's 
habits.  His  room  was  across  the  open  space  opposite 
Fred's,  with  windows  overlooking  the  yard. 

This  condensation  of  good-nature,  wit,  and  good> 
humor,  Fred  went  on  to  say,  had  been  shipped  to 

163 


THE  FOETUKES  OF  OLIVEK  HORN 

"  The  States  "  by  his  father,  a  rich  manufacturer  of 
Irish  whiskies  in  Dublin,  that  he  might  learn  some 
thing  of  the  ways  of  the  New  World.  And  there 
was  not  the  slightest  doubt  in  the  minds  of  his  com 
rades,  so  Fred  assured  Oliver,  that  he  had  not  only 
won  his  diploma,  but  that  the  sum  of  his  knowledge 
along  several  other  lines  far  exceeded  that  of  any 
one  of  his  contemporaries.  His  allowances  came  reg 
ularly  every  month,  through  the  hands  of  Cockburn, 
who  had  known  him  in  London,  and  whose  bank 
cashed  McFudd's  remittances — a  fact  which  enabled 
my  lord  to  a  greater  extent  than  the  others  to  keep 
an  eye  on  the  Irishman's  movements  and  expendi 
tures. 

Whatever  deviltry  was  inaugurated  on  this  top 
floor  during  the  day  as  well  as  the  night,  and  it  was 
pretty  constant,  could  be  traced  without  much  diffi 
culty  to  this  irrepressible  young  Irishman.  If  Tom- 
lins  found  his  dress-suit  put  to  bed,  with  a  pillow  for 
a  body  and  his  crush-hat  for  a  head;  or  Cranch  found 
Waller's  lay-figure  (Waller  often  used  his  bedroom 
as  a  studio)  sitting  bolt  upright  in  his  easy-chair,  with 
its  back  to  him  reading  a  newspaper — the  servant 
having  been  told  to  announce  to  Cranch,  the  moment 
she  opened  the  door,  that  "  a  gentleman  was  waiting 
for  him  in  his  room  " ;  or  Cockburn  was  sent  off  on 
some  wild-goose  chase  uptown — it  was  safe  to  say 
that  Mac  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all. 

164 


AN   OLD   SOXG 

If,  Fred  added  impressively,  this  rollicking,  devil- 
may-care,  perfectly  sound  and  hearty  young  Hiber 
nian  had  ever  been  absolutely,  entirely,  and  com 
pletely  sober  since  his  sojourn  in  the  land  of  the 
free,  no  one  of  his  fellow-boarders  had  ever  discov 
ered  it. 

Of  this  motley  gathering  "  Ruffle-shirt  "  Tomlins, 
the  swell;  "Fog-horn"  Cranch,  the  auctioneer; 
"Walrus"  Waller,  the  sheep-painter;  "My  Lord" 
Cockburn,  the  Englishman;  Fred  Stone  and  Corne 
lius  McFudd,  not  only  occupied  the  bedrooms,  but 
had  seats  at  Miss  Teetum's  table,  four  flights  below. 
Bianchi  and  the  others  were  the  guests  of  the  evening. 

All  this,  and  more,  Fred  poured  into  Oliver's  will 
ing  ear  in  loud  or  soft  tones,  dependent  upon  the  par 
ticular  kind  of  bedlam  that  was  loose  in  the  room  at 
the  moment,  as  they  sat  side  by  side  on  the  floor,  Oli 
ver's  back  supported  by  a  pillow  which  Tomlins  had 
brought  from  his  own  bed  and  tucked  behind  his 
shoulders  with  his  own  hand. 

This  courtesy  had  been  followed  by  another,  quite 
as  comforting  and  as  thoughtful.  Cockburn,  the  mo 
ment  Oliver's  back  touched  the  wall,  had  handed  him 
a  tooth-brush  mug  without  a  handle,  filled  to  the  brim 
with  a  decoction  of  Cockburn's  own  brewing,  com 
pounded  hot  according  to  McFudd's  receipt,  and 
poured  from  an  earthen  pitcher  kept  within  reach  of 
Cockburn's  hand,  and  to  which  Oliver,  in  accordance 

165 


with  his  habitual  custom.,  had  merely  touched  his  lips, 
he  being  the  most  temperate  of  young  gentlemen. 

While  they  talked  on,  stopping  now  and  then 
to  listen  to  some  outburst  of  Cranch,  whose  voice 
drowned  all  others — or  to  snatches  of  song  from  Wen- 
by  Simmons,  the  musician,  or  from  Julius  Bianchi, 
Waller's  voice  managed  to  make  itself  felt  above  the 
din  with  an  earnestness  that  gained  the  attention  and 
calmed  all  the  others. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you're  all  talking  about," 
he  was  heard  to  say.  He  was  still  astride  his  chair, 
his  pipe  in  his  hand.  "  Inness's  picture  was  the  best 
thing  we  had  in  the  Exhibition,  except  Eastman 
Johnson's  '  Negro  Life  at  the  South.'  Kensett's 
*  Lake  George  '  was " 

"What — that  Inness  smear?"  retorted  "My 
Lord  "  Cockburn,  who  still  stood  with  the  coal-scuttle 
in  his  hand  ready  for  another  chorus.  "  Positively, 
Waller,  you  Americans  amuse  me.  Do  you  really 
think  that  you've  got  anybody  about  you  who  can 
paint  anything  worth  having " 

"  Oh!  oh!    Hear  the  high-cockalorum!    Oh!  oh!  " 

The  sheep-painter  raised  his  hand  to  command 
silence. 

"  Do  I  think  we've  got  anybody  about  here  who 
can  paint? — you  fog-headed  noodle  from  Piccadilly? 
We've  got  a  dozen  young  fellows  in  this  very  town 
that  put  more  real  stuff  into  their  canvases  than  all 

166 


AN   OLD   SONG 

your  men  put  together.  They  don't  tickle  their 
things  to  death  with  detail.  They  get  air  and  vitality 
and  out-of-doors  into  their  work,  and " 

"  Names !  Names !  "  shouted  "  My  Lord  "  Cock- 
burn,  rattling  the  scuttle  to  drown  the  answers  to 
his  questions. 

"  George  Inness  for  one,  and  young  McEntee  and 
Sanford  Gifford,  and  Eastman  Johnson,  Page,  Cas- 
ilear— a  lot  of  them,"  shouted  "  The  Walrus."  "  Go 

to  the  Exhibition  and  see  for  yourself,  and  you " 

*The  rest  of  the  discussion  was  lost  to  Oliver's  ears 
owing  to  the  roar  of  Cranch's  fog-horn,  accompanied 
by  another  vigorous  shaking  of  the  scuttle,  which 
the  auctioneer  caught  away  from  "  My  Lord  "  Cock- 
burn's  grasp,  and  the  pounding  of  Simmons's  fingers 
on  the  yellow  keys  of  the  wheezy  piano. 

The  tribute  to  Inness  had  not  been  missed  by  Oli 
ver,  despite  the  deafening  noise  accompanying  its 
utterance.  He  remembered  another  green  smear, 
that  hung  in  Mr.  Crocker's  studio,  to  which  that  old 
enthusiast  always  pointed  as  the  work  of  a  man  who 
would  yet  be  heard  from  if  he  lived.  He  had  never 
appreciated  it  himself  at  the  time,  but  now  he  saw  that 
Mr.  Crocker  must  be  right. 

Someone  now  started  the  chorus — 

Down  among  the  dead  men,  down. 

Instantly  every  man  was  on  his  feet  crowding 
about  the  piano,  Oliver  catching  the  inspiration  of  the 

167 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

moment  and  joining  in  with  the  others.  The  quality 
of  his  voice  must  have  caught  the  ear  of  some  of  the 
singers,  for  they  gradually  lowered  their  tones,  leav 
ing  Oliver's  voice  almost  alone. 

Fred's  eye  glowed  with  pleasure.  His  new-found 
friend  was  making  a  favorable  impression.  He  at 
once  urged  Oliver  to  sing  one  of  his  own  Southern 
songs  as  the  darkies  sung  them  at  home,  and  not  as 
they  were  caricatured  by  the  end  men  in  the  minstrel 
shows. 

Oliver,  at  first  abashed,  and  then  anxious  to  con 
tribute  something  of  his  own  in  return  for  all  the 
pleasure  they  had  given  him,  hummed  the  tune  for 
Simmons,  and  in  the  hush  that  followed  began  one  of 
the  old  plantation  songs  that  Malachi  had  taught  him, 
beginning  with 

De  old  black  dog  he  bay  at  de  moon, 

Away  down  yan  ribber. 
Miss  Bull-frog  say  she  git  dar  soon, 

Away  down  yan  ribber. 

As  the  melody  rang  through  the  room,  now  full 
and  strong,  now  plaintive  as  the  cooing  of  a  dove  or 
the  moan  of  a  whippoorwill,  the  men  stood  stock-still, 
their  wondering  eyes  fixed  on  the  singer,  and  it  was 
not  until  the  timely  arrival  of  the  Bull-frog  and  the 
escape  of  her  lover  had  been  fully  told  that  the  listen 
ing  crowd  allowed  themselves  to  do  much  more  than 
breathe.  Then  there  came  a  shout  that  nearly  raised 

168 


AST   OLD   SONG 

the  roof.  The  peculiar  sweetness  of  Oliver's  voice, 
the  quaintness  of  the  melody,  the  grotesqueness  of 
his  gestures — for  it  was  pantomime  as  well  as  music 
• — and  the  quiet  simplicity  and  earnestness  with  which 
it  had  all  been  done,  had  captivated  every  man  in  the 
room.  It  was  Oliver's  first  triumph — the  first  in  all 
his  life. 

And  the  second  was  not  far  off,  for  in  the  midst 
of  all  the  uproar  that  followed,  as  he  resumed  his 
place  on  the  floor,  Cockburn  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
proposed  Mr.  Oliver  Horn  as  a  full  member  of  the 
Skylarkers'  Club.  This  was  carried  unanimously, 
and  a  committee  of  two,  consisting  of  "  Ruffle-shirt  " 
Tomlins  and  Waller,  were  forthwith  appointed  to 
acquaint  the  said  member,  who  stood  three  feet  away, 
of  his  election,  and  to  escort  him  to  Tomlins's  chair — 
the  largest  and  most  imposing-looking  one  in  the 
room.  This  action  was  indorsed  by  the  shouts  and 
cat-calls  of  all  present,  accompanied  by  earthquake 
shakings  of  the  coal-scuttle  and  the  rattling  of  chair- 
legs  and  canes  on  the  floor. 

Oliver  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  blushing  like  a 
girl,  thanking  those  about  him  in  halting  sentences 
for  the  honor  conferred  upon  him.  Then  he  stam 
mered  something  about  his  not  deserving  their  praise, 
for  he  could  really  sing  very  few  songs — only  those 
he  had  sung  at  home  to  help  out  an  occasional  chorus, 
and  that  he  would  be  delighted  to  join  in  another 

169 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

song  if  any  one  of  the  gentlemen  present  would  start 
the  tune. 

These  last  suggestions  being  eminently  distasteful 
to  the  group,  were  immediately  drowned  in  a  series  of 
protests,  the  noise  only  ceasing  when  "  Fog-horn  " 
Cranch  mounted  a  chair  and  in  his  best  real  estate 
voice  commanded  silence. 

"  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,"  thundered  the  auction 
eer,  "  I  have  the  honor  to  announce  that  the  great 
barytone,  Mr.  Oliver  Horn,  known  to  the  universe  as 
the  '  Musical  Cornucopia/  late  of  the  sunny  South, 
and  now  a  resident  of  this  metropolis,  will  delight 
this  company  by  singing  one  of  those  soul-moving 
plantation  melodies  which  have  made  his  name  fa 
mous  over  two  hemispheres.  Mr.  '  Pussy  Me-ow  ' 
Simmons,  the  distinguished  fiddling  pianist,  late  of 
the  Bowery,  very  late,  I  may  remark,  and  now  on 
;';he  waiting  list  at  Wallack's  Theatre — every  other 
month,  I  am  told — will  accompany  him." 

"Hear!  Hear!"  "Horn!  Horn!"  "Don't  let 
him  get  away,  Fred."  "Song!  Song!"  was  heard 
all  over  the  room. 

Oliver  again  tried  to  protest,  but  he  was  again 
shouted  down  by  cries  of — 

"None  of  that!"  "  Can't  fool  us."  "  You  know 
a  barrel  of  'em."  "  Song!  Song!  " 

Cranch  broke  in  again — "  Mr.  Horn's  modesty, 
gentlemen,  greatly  endears  him  to  his  fellow-mem' 

170 


AN   OLD   SONG 

bers,  and  we  love  him  the  better  for  it,  but  all  the 
same —  "  and  he  raised  his  hand  with  the  same  gest 
ure  he  would  have  used  had  it  held  an  auctioneer's 
hammer —  "  All  in  favor  of  his  singing  again  say 
'Aye!  '  Going!  Going!  Gone!  The  ayes  have  it." 
In  the  midst  of  the  cheering  Cranch  jumped  from  the 
chair  and  taking  Oliver  by  the  hand  as  if  he  had  been 
a  young  prima  donna  at  her  first  appearance,  led  him 
to  the  piano  with  all  the  airs  and  graces  common  to 
such  an  occasion. 

Our  young  hero  hesitated  a  moment,  looked  about 
in  a  pleased  but  helpless  way,  and  nerving  himself 
tried  to  collect  his  thoughts  sufficiently  to  recall  some 
one  of  the  songs  that  were  so  familiar  to  him  at 
home.  Then  Sue's  black  eyes  looked  into  his — there 
must  always  be  a  woman  helping  Oliver — and  the 
strains  of  the  last  song  he  had  sung  with  her  the  night 
before  he  left  home  floated  through  his  brain. 
(These  same  eyes  were  gazing  into  another's  at  the 
moment,  but  our  young  Oliver  was  unconscious  of 
that  lamentable  fact.) 

"  Did  you  ever  happen  to  hear  '  The  Old  Kentucky 
Home'?"  Oliver  asked  Simmons.  "No?  Well, 
it  goes  this  way,"  and  he  struck  the  chords. 

"  You  play  it,"  said  Simmons,  rising  from  the 
stool. 

"  Oh,  I  can  only  play  the  chords,  and  not  all 
of  them  right —  '  and  he  took  Simmons's  seat. 

171 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  Perhaps  I  can  get  through — I'll  try  it,"  he  added, 
simply,  and  squared  himself  before  the  instrument 
and  began  the  melody. 

The  sun  shines  bright  in  the  old  Kentucky  home, 

'Tis  summer,  the  darkies  are  gay. 
The  corn-top's  ripe  and  the  meadow  is  in  bloom, 

While  the  birds  make  music  all  the  day. 

Weep  no  more,  my  lady — oh,  weep  no  more  to-day  ! 
We'll  sing  one  song  for  the  old  Kentucky  home, 
For  the  old  Kentucky  home  far  away. 

As  the  words  rolled  from  his  lips  Oliver  seemed  to 
forget  the  scene  before  him.  Somehow  he  could  see 
the  light  in  Sue's  eyes,  as  she  listened,  and  hear  her 
last  words.  He  could  hear  the  voice  of  his  mother, 
and  feel  her  hand  on  his  head;  and  then,  as  the  soft 
vowels  and  cadences  of  the  quaint  melody  breathed 
themselves  out,  he  could  catch  again  the  expression 
of  delight  on  the  face  of  Malachi — who  had  taught 
him  the  song — as  he  listened,  his  black  cheek  in 
his  wrinkled  palm.  It  was  a  supreme  moment  with 
Oliver.  The  thrill  of  happiness  that  had  quiv 
ered  through  him  for  days,  intensified  by  this  new 
heaven  of  Bohemia,  vibrated  in  every  note  he  uttered. 

The  effect  was  equally  startling  on  those  about 
him.  Cranch  craned  his  head,  and  for  once  lowered 
his  voice  to  a  whisper  in  speaking  to  the  man  next 
him.  Bowdoin,  the  painter,  and  one  of  the  guests, 

172 


AN   OLD   SONG 

left  his  seat  and  tip-toed  to  the  piano,  his  eyes  riveted 
on  Oliver's  face,  his  whole  being  absorbed  in  the 
melody.  Bianchi  and  Waller  so  far  lost  themselves 
that  their  pipes  went  out,  while  Simmons  was  so  en 
tranced  that  he  forgot  to  applaud  when  Oliver  fin 
ished. 

The  effect  produced  was  not  so  much  due  to  the 
quality  in  Oliver's  voice — sweet  and  sympathetic  as 
it  was — nor  to  his  manner  of  singing,  nor  to  the  sen 
timent  of  the  song  itself,  but  to  the  fact  of  its  being, 
*with  its  clear,  sweet  notes,  a  positive  contrast  to  all  of 
noise  and  clamor  that  had  gone  before.  This  fact, 
more  than  any  other,  made  his  listeners  hold  their 
breath  in  wonder  and  delight.  It  came  like  the  song 
of  a  bird  bursting  out  after  a  storm  and  charming 
everyone  with  the  beauty  of  its  melody,  while  the 
thunder  of  the  tempest  still  reverberated  through  the 
air. 

In  the  hush  of  the  death-like  stillness  that  fol 
lowed,  the  steady  tramp  of  feet  was  heard  on  the 
staircase,  and  the  next  instant  the  head  of  a  young 
man,  with  a  rosy  face  and  side-chop  coachman  whis 
kers,  close-cut  black  hair  and  shoe-button  eyes, 
glistening  with  fun,  was  craned  around  the  jamb  of 
the  door. 

It  was  the  property  of  Mr.  Cornelius  McFudd! 

He  was  in  full  evening  dress,  and  as  immaculate 
as  if  he  had  stepped  out  of  a  bandbox. 

173 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Whatever  stimulants  had  permeated  his  system  and 
fired  his  imagination  had  evidently  escaped  his  Jegs, 
for  they  were  as  steady  as  those  of  a  tripod.  His 
entrance,  in  a  measure,  restored  the  assemblags  to 
its  normal  condition.  Mr.  McFudd  raised  his  hand 
impressively,  checking  the  customary  outbreak  that 
always  greeted  his  appearance  on  occasions  like  this, 
struck  a  deprecatory  attitude  and  said,  solemnly,  in 
a  rich,  jSTorth-of-Ireland  accent: 

"  Gentlemen,  it  is  with  the  greatest  surprise  that 
I  find  ye  contint  to  waste  your  time  over  such  riotous 
proceedings  as  I  know  have  taken  place  here  to-night, 
when  within  a  block  of  yez  is  a  perfarmance  that 
would  delight  yer  souls.  Think  of  a  man  throwing 
a  hand-spring  over 

At  this  instant  a  wet  sponge  was  fired  point  blank 
from  an  open  bedroom  door,  missed  McFudd's  head 
by  an  inch  and  bounded  down  the  staircase. 

"  Thank  ye,  Admiral  Lord  Cockburn,  for  yer  civil 
ity,"  cried  McFudd,  bowing  low  to  the  open  bedroom 
door,  "  and  for  yer  good  intintions,  but  ye  missed 
it  as  yer  did  yer  mither's  blessing — and  as  ye  do  most 
of  the  things  ye  try  to  hit."  This  was  said  without 
raising  his  voice  or  changing  a  muscle  of  his  face,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  door  inside  of  which  stood  Cock- 
burn. 

McFudd   continued,    "  The  perfarmance    of   this 

acrobat  is  one  of  the " 

174 


AN   OLD   SONG 

Cries  of  "  Don't  you  see  you  disturb  the  music? " 
"  Go  to  bed!  "  "  Somebody  sit  on  McFudd!  "  etc., 
filled  the  room. 

"  Go  on,  gentlemen.  Continue  your  insults ;  de 
fame  the  name  of  an  honest  man  who  is  attimpting 
to  convey  to  yer  dull  comprehinsions  some  idea  of 
the  wonders  of  the  acrobatic  ring.  I'll  turn  a  hand 
spring  for  yez  meself  that  will  illustrate  \vhat  I  mane," 
and  Mr.  McFudd  carefully  removed  his  coat  pnd  be 
gan  sliding  up  his  shirt-cuffs. 

4  At  this  juncture  "  My  Lord  "  Cockburn,  who  had 
come  from  behind  the  door,  winked  significantly  at 
Waller,  and  creeping  on  all  fours  behind  McFudd, 
just  as  that  gentleman  was  about  lifting  his  legs  aloft, 
swept  him  off  his  feet  by  a  twist  of  his  arm,  and  de 
posited  him  on  the  small  of  his  back  next  to  Oliver, 
his  head  resting  against  the  wall.  There  Waller 
stood  over  him  with  a  chair,  which  he  threatened  to 
turn  over  him  upside  down  and  sit  on  if  the  prostrate 
Irishman  moved  an  inch. 

McFudd  waved  his  hand  sadly  as  if  in  acquiescence 
to  the  inscrutable  laws  of  fate,  begged  the  gentlemen 
present  to  give  no  further  thought  to  his  existence, 
and  after  a  moment  of  silence  continued  his  remarks 
on  the  acrobatic  ring  to  Oliver  in  the  same  monot 
onous  tone  of  voice  which  he  had  addressed  to  the 
room  before  Cockburn's  flank  movement  had  made 
turn  bite  the  dust. 

175 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  It  may  seem  to  you,  Mr. —  Mr. — ,  I  haven't 
your  name,  sir,"  and  he  bent  his  head  toward 
Oliver. 

"  Horn,  sir,"  Oliver  suggested.     "  Oliver  Horn." 

"  Thanks,  it  may  seem  to  you  that  I'm  exaggerat 
ing,  Mr.  Oliver  Horn,  the  wonder  of  this  perfarm- 
ance,  but " 

The  rest  of  the  sentence,  despite  the  Hibernian's 
well-intentioned  efforts,  was  not  addressed  to  Oliver, 
but  to  the  room  at  large,  or  rather  to  its  furniture, 
or  to  be  still  more  exact,  to  the  legs  of  the  piano,  and 
such  chairs  and  tables  as  the  Irishman's  prostrate 
body  bumped  into  on  the  way  to  his  room.  For  at 
that  instant  Waller,  to  save  Oliver,  as  he  pretended, 
from  further  annoyance,  had  caught  the  distinguished 
Hibernian  by  both  feet,  and  in  that  position  dragged 
him  along  the  floor,  as  if  he  had  been  a  wheelbarrow, 
McFudd's  voice  never  changing  its  tone  as  he  con 
tinued  his  remarks  on  physical  culture,  and  the  bene 
fits  which  would  accrue  to  the  human  race  if  they 
would  practice  the  acrobat's  hand-spring. 

When  Fred  and  Oliver  had  closed  their  bedroom 
door  for  the  night,  the  guests  having  departed  and 
all  the  regular  boarders  being  supposedly  secure  in 
their  beds  (Fred  without  much  difficulty  had  per 
suaded  Oliver  to  share  his  own  bed  over  night),  there 
came  a  knock  at  Fred's  door,  and  the  irrepressible 
Irishman  stalked  in. 

176 


A~N   OLD   SONG 

He  had  removed  his  vest,  high  collar,  and  shoes, 
and  had  the  air  and  look  of  an  athlete.  The  mar 
vellous  skill  of  the  acrobat  still  occupied  his  mind. 

"  Don't  disturb  yourself,  my  dear  Stone,  but  me 
deloightful  conversation  with  yer  friend,  Mr.  Horn, 
was  interrupted  by  that  wild  beast  of  a  Waller,  and  I 
wanted  to  finish  it.  I  am  quite  sure  I  can  do  it — the 
trick  I  was  telling  ye  of.  I've  been  practizing  in 
me  room.  It's  as  easy  as  rolling  off  a  jaunting 
car." 

"  No,  Mac,  old  man.  Go  to  bed  again,"  pleaded 
Fred. 

"  Not  till  I  show  ye,  me  boy,  one  of  the  most  beau 
tiful  feats  of  agility " 

"  Come  off,  Mac,  I  say,"  cried  Fred,  catching  the 
Irishman  around  the  waist. 

"  I'll  come  nothing !  Unhand  me,  gentlemen,  or 
by  the — "  and  tearing  himself  free  McFudd  threw  a 
hand-spring  with  the  ease  of  a  professional,  toppled, 
for  a  moment,  his  feet  in  the  air,  scraped  along  the 
whitewashed  wall  with  his  heels,  and  sweeping  the 
basins  and  pitchers  filled  with  water  from  the  wash- 
stand  measured  his  length  on  the  floor.  Then  came 
the  crash  of  broken  china,  a  deluge  of  water,  and 
Fred  and  Oliver  began  catching  up  sponges  and  tow 
els  to  stay  the  flood. 

A  minute  later  a  man  in  a  long  gray  beard  and 
longer  night-robe — one  of  the  regular  boarders—" 

177 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

bounded  up  the  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time  and  dashed 
through  Fred's  open  door. 

"  By  thunder,  boys !  "  he  cried,  "  I  don't  mind  how 
much  noise  you  make,  rather  like  it;  but  what  the 
devil  are  you  trying  to  drown  us  out  for?  Wife  is 
soaking — it's  puddling  down  on  our  bed." 

By  this  time  every  door  had  been  flung  open,  and 
the  room  was  filled  with  half-dressed  men. 

"  It's  that  lunatic,  McFudd.  He's  been  to  the  cir 
cus  and  thinks  he's  Martello,"  cried  Fred,  pointing 
to  the  prostrate  Irishman  with  the  sponge  which  he 
had  been  squeezing  out  in  the  coal-scuttle. 

"  Or  the  clown,"  remarked  Waller,  stooping  over 
McFudd,  who  was  now  holding  his  sides  and  roaring 
with  laughter. 

Long  after  Fred  had  fallen  asleep,  Oliver  lay  awake 
thinking  of  the  night's  pleasure.  He  had  been  very, 
very  happy — happier  than  he  had  been  for  many 
months.  The  shouts  of  approval  on  his  election  to 
membership,  the  rounds  of  applause  that  had  fol 
lowed  his  rendering  of  the  simple  negro  melodies, 
resounded  in  his  ears,  and  the  joy  of  it  all  still  tingled 
through  his  veins.  This  first  triumph  of  his  life  had 
brought  with  it  a  certain  confidence  in  himself — a 
new  feeling  of  self-reliance — of  being  able  to  hold 
his  own  among  men,  something  he  had  never  ex 
perienced  before.  This  made  it  all  the  more  ex 
hilarating. 

178 


AN   OLD   SONG 

And  the  company! 

Real  live  painters  who  sold  their  pictures  and  who 
had  studied  in  Munich,  and  who  knew  Paris  and 
Dresden  and  all  the  wonderful  cities  of  which  Mr. 
Crocker  had  talked.  And  real  musicians,  too ! — who 
played  at  theatres;  and  Englishmen  from  London^ 
and  Irishmen  from  Dublin,  and  all  so  jolly  and  uncon 
ventional  and  companionable.  It  was  just  as  Mr. 
Crocker  had  described  it,  and  just  what  he  had  about 
despaired  of  ever  finding.  Surely  his  cup  of  happi 
ness  was  full  to  the  brim. 

We  can  forgive  him;  we  who  still  remember  those 
glimpses  behind  the  scenes — our  first  and  never-to- 
be-forgotten!  How  real  everything  seemed,  even 
the  grease-paint,  the  wigs,  and  the  clothes.  And 
Yhe  walking  gentleman  and  the  leading  old  man  and 
low  comedian!  "What  splendid  fellows  they  were 
and  how  we  sympathized  with  them  in  their  en 
forced  exiles  from  a  beloved  land.  How  they  suf 
fered  from  scheming  brothers  who  had  robbed  them 
of  their  titles  and  estates,  or  flint-hearted  fathers 
who  had  turned  them  out  of  doors  because  of 
their  infatuation  for  their  "  art "  or  because  of  their 
love  for  some  dame  of  noble  birth  or  simple  lass, 
whose  name — "Me  boy,  will  be  forever  sacred!" 
How  proud  we  were  of  knowing  them,  and  how  de- 
Ighted  they  were  at  knowing  us — and  they  so  much 
older  too!  And  how  tired  we  got  of  it  all — and  of 

179 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

them — and  of  all  their  kind  when  our  eyes  became 
accustomed  to  the  glare  and  we  saw  how  cheap  and 
commonplace  it  all  was  and  how  much  of  its  glamour 
and  charm  had  come  from  our  own  inexperience  and 
enthusiasm — and  youth. 

As  Oliver  lay  with  wide-open  eyes,  going  over 
every  incident  of  the  evening,  he  remembered,  with 
a  certain  touch  of  exultant  pride,  a  story  his  father 
had  told  him  of  the  great  Poe,  and  he  fell  to  wonder 
ing  whether  the  sweetness  of  his  o\vn  song,  falling  on 
ears  stunned  by  the  jangle  of  the  night,  had  not  pro 
duced  a  similar  effect.  Poe,  his  father  had  said,  on 
being  pressed  for  a  story  in  the  midst  of  a  night  of 
revelry  in  a  famous  house  on  Kennedy  Square,  had 
risen  from  his  seat  and  repeated  the  Lord's  Prayer 
with  such  power  and  solemnity  that  the  guests,  one 
and  all,  stunned  and  sobered,  had  pushed  their  chairs 
from  the  table  and  had  left  the  house.  He  remem 
bered  just  where  his  father  sat  when  he  told  the  story 
and  the  impression  it  had  made  upon  him  at  the  time. 
He  wished  Kennedy  Square  had  been  present  to 
night  to  have  heard  him  and  to  have  seen  the  im 
pression  his  song  had  made  upon  those  gathered 
about  him. 

Kennedy  Square!  What  would  dear  old  Richard 
Horn,  with  his  violin  tucked  lovingly  under  his  chin, 
and  gentle,  white-haired  Nathan,  with  his  lips  caress 
ing  his  flute,  have  thought  of  it  all,  as  they  listened 

180 


AN   OLD   SONG 

to  the  uproar  of  Cockburn's  coal-scuttle?  And,  that 
latter-day  Chesterfield,  Colonel  John  Howard  Clay 
ton,  of  Pongateague,  whose  pipe-stemmed  Madeira 
glasses  were  kept  submerged  in  iced  finger-bowls  until 
the  moment  of  their  use,  and  whose  rare  Burgundies 
were  drunk  out  of  ruby-colored  soap-bubbles  warmed 
to  an  exact  temperature.  What  would  this  old 
aristocrat  have  thought  of  McFudd's  mixture  and  the 
way  it  was  served? 

^  No!  It  was  just  as  well  that  Kennedy  Square,  at 
the  moment  of  Oliver's  triumph,  was  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTEE  IX 


The  prying  sun  peeped  through  the  dingy  curtains 
of  Fred's  bedroom  on  the  morning  after  Oliver's 
revels,  stencilling  a  long  slant  of  yellow  light  down 
its  grimy  walls,  and  awaking  our  young  hero  with  a 
start.  Except  for  the  shattered  remnants  of  the 
basins  and  pitchers  that  he  saw  as  he  looked  around 
him,  and  the  stringy  towels,  still  wet,  hanging  over 
the  backs  of  the  chairs,  he  would  not  have  recog* 
nized  it  as  the  same  room  in  which  he  had  met  such 
brilliant  company  the  night  before — so  kindly  a 
glamour  does  the  night  throw  over  our  follies. 

With  the  vision  of  the  room  and  its  tokens  of 
their  frolic  came  an  uneasy  sense  of  an  unpleasant 
remembrance.  The  thrill  of  his  own  triumph  no 
longer  filled  his  heart;  only  the  memory  of  the  up 
roar  remained.  As  he  caught  sight  of  the  broken 
pieces  of  china  still  littering  the  carpet,  and  recalled 
McEudd's  sprawling  figure,  a  slight  color  suffused  his 
cheek. 

The  room  itself,  in  the  light  of  day,  was  not  only 
cold  and  uninviting,  but  so  bare  of  even  the  common* 

182 


MISS  TEETTJM'S  LONG  TABLE 

est  comforts  that  Oliver  shivered.  The  bottoms  were 
half  out  of  the  chairs;  the  painted  wash-stand  stood 
on  a  square  of  chilly  oil-cloth;  the  rusty  grate  and 
broken  hearth  were  unswept  of  their  ashes;  the  car 
pet  patched  and  threadbare.  He  wondered,  as  he 
studied  each  detail,  how  Miss  Teetum  could  expect 
her  boarders  to  be  contented  in  such  quarters. 

He  saw  at  a  glance  how  much  more  cosey  and  rest 
ful  the  room  might  be  made  with  the  addition  of  a 
^ew  touches  here  and  there ;  a  colored  print  or  two — 
a  plaster  cast — a  bit  of  cheap  stuff  or  some  gay-col 
ored  cushions.  It  surprised  him,  above  all,  to  dis 
cover  that  Fred,  who  was  studying  art  and  should, 
therefore,  be  sensitive  to  such  influences,  was  willing 
to  live  amid  such  desolate  surroundings. 

When  he  stepped  out  into  the  square  hall,  the 
scene  of  the  night's  revelry,  and  glanced  about  him, 
the  crude  bareness  and  reckless  disorder  that  the  mer 
ciful  glow  of  the  gas-light  and  its  attendant  shadows 
had  kindly  concealed,  stood  out  in  bold  relief  under 
the  white  light  of  the  day  now  streaming  through  an 
oval  skylight  immediately  above  the  piano.  The 
floor  was  strewn  with  the  various  properties  of  the 
night's  performance — overturned  stools,  china  mugs, 
bits  of  lemon-peel,  stumps  of  cigars,  and  stray  pipes; 
while  scattered  about  under  the  piano  and  between 
the  legs  of  the  chairs,  and  even  upon  the  steps  of  the 
staircase,  were  the  pieces  of  coal  which  Fog-horn 

183 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Cranch  and  Waller,  who  held  the  scuttle,  had 
pounded  into  bits  when  they  produced  that  wild  jan 
gle  which  had  added  so  much  of  dignity  and  power  to 
the  bass  notes  of  the  Dead  Man's  Chorus. 

These  cold  facts  aroused  in  Oliver  a  sense  of  re 
pugnance  which  he  could  not  shake  off.  It  was  as 
if  the  head  of  some  jolly  clown  of  the  night  before 
had  been  suddenly  thrust  through  the  canvas  of  the 
tent  in  broad  daylight,  showing  the  paint,  the 
wrinkles  beneath,  the  yellow  teeth,  and  the  coarse 
mouth. 

Oliver  was  about  to  turn  back  to  Fred's  room,  this 
feeling  of  revolt  strong  upon  him,  when  his  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  collection  of  drawings  that  covered 
almost  every  square  inch  of  the  ceiling.  To  his  aston 
ishment  he  discovered  that  what  in  the  smoke  of  the 
night  before  he  had  supposed  to  be  only  hasty 
•ketches  scrawled  over  the  white  plaster,  were  in 
Teality,  now  that  he  saw  them  in  a  clearer  atmos 
phere,  effective  pictures  in  pastel,  oil,  and  charcoal. 
That  the  basis  of  these  cartoons  was  but  the  grimy 
stain  made  by  the  water  which  had  beaten  through 
the  rickety  sash  during  the  drive  and  thrash  of  whiter 
storms,  flooding  the  whitewashed  ceiling  and  trick 
ling  down  the  side-walls  in  smears  of  brown  rust,  did 
not  lessen  their  value  in  his  eyes. 

Closer  inspection  showed  him  that  these  discolora- 
tions — some  round  or  curved,  others  straight  or 

184 


MISS  TEETTJM'S  LONG  TABLE 

•ngular — had  been  altered  and  amended  as  the  signa 
tures  indicated  by  the  deft  pencils  of  Waller,  Fred, 
Bowdoin,  and  the  others,  into  flying  Cupids,  Dianas, 
Neptunes,  and  mermaids  fit  to  grace  the  ceiling  of 
a  salon  if  properly  enlarged;  while  the  up-and-down 
smears  had  suggested  the  opportunity  for  caricatur 
ing  half  the  boarders  of  the  house.  Every  fresh  leak 
and  its  accompanying  stains  evidently  presented  a 
new  problem  to  the  painters,  and  were  made  the  sub 
ject  of  prolonged  study  and  much  consultation  before 
a  brush  was  permitted  to  touch  them,  the  point  appar 
ently  being  to  help  the  discolorations  express  them 
selves  with  the  fewest  possible  touches. 

In  addition  to  these  decorations  overhead,  Oliver 
found,  framed  in  on  the  cleaner  plaster  of  the  side- 
walls,  between  broad  bands  of  black  paint,  several 
taking  bits  of  landscape  in  color  and  black  and  white ; 
Btretches  of  coast  with  quaint  boats  and  dots  of  fig 
ures;  winter  wood  interiors  with  white  plaster  for 
snow  and  scrapings  of  charcoal  for  tree-trunks,  each 
§ne  marked  with  that  sure  crispness  of  touch  which 
denotes  the  master-hand.  Moreover,  the  panels  of  all 
the  doors,  as  well  as  their  jambs  and  frames,  were 
ornamented  with  sketches  in  all  mediums,  illustrat 
ing  incidents  in  the  lives  of  the  various  boarders 
who  occupied  the  rooms  below,  and  who — so  Fred 
told  him  afterward — stole  into  this  sacred  spot  on  the 
sly,  to  gloat  over  the  night's  work  whenever  a  new 

185 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

picture  was  reported  and  the  rightful  denizens  were 
known  to  be  absent. 

As  he  stood  absorbed  before  these  marvels  of 
brush  and  pencil,  scrutinizing  each  one  in  turn,  his 
sense  of  repulsion  for  the  debris  on  the  floor  gave 
way  to  a  feeling  of  enthusiasm.  Not  only  were  the 
sketches  far  superior  to  any  he  had  ever  seen,  but 
the  way  in  which  they  were  done  and  the  uses  of  the 
several  mediums  were  a  revelation  to  him.  It  was 
only  when  Fog-horn  Cranch's  big  voice  roused  him 
to  consciousness  that  he  realized  where  he  was.  The 
auctioneer  was  coming  out  of  his  room,  resplendent 
in  a  striped  suit,  gaiters,  and  white  necktie — this  be 
ing  his  real-estate  day. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  Cranch  shouted,  bringing  his 
hand  down  on  Oliver's  shoulder,  "  do  you  know 
you've  got  a  voice  like  an  angel's  ? " 

Before  Oliver  could  reply,  My  Lord  Cockburn 
joined  them,  his  first  word  one  of  pleasure  at  meet 
ing  him,  and  his  second  a  hope  that  he  would  know 
him  better;  then  Fred  ran  out,  flinging  on  his  coat 
and  laughing  as  he  came.  Under  these  combined 
influences  of  praise  and  good-cheer  Oliver's  spirits 
rose  and  his  blood  began  once  more  to  surge  through 
his  veins.  With  his  old-time  buoyancy  he  put  his  arm 
through  Fred's,  while  the  two  tramped  gayly  down 
the  four  flights  of  stairs  to  be  ushered  into  the  long, 
narrow,  stuffy  dining-room  on  the  basement  floor, 

186 


MISS  TEETUM'S  LONG  TABLE 

there  to  be  presented  to  the  two  Misses  Teetaim,  who 
as  the  young  men  entered  bent  low  over  their  platea 
in  unison.  This  perfunctory  salute  our  young  gen 
tleman  acknowledged  by  bowing  grandly  in  return, 
after  which  he  dropped  into  a  seat  next  to  Fred's — 
his  back  to  a  tin  box  filled  with  plates,  placed  over  the 
hot-air  register-  -drew  out  a  damp  napkin  from  a 
bone  ring,  and  took  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  table  and 
its  occupants. 

The  two  Misses  Teetum  sat  one  at  either  end — 
Miss  Ann,  thin,  severe,  precise;  Miss  Sarah,  stout, 
coy,  and  a  trifle  kittenish,  as  doubtless  became  a 
young  woman  of  forty-seven,  and  her  sister's  junior 
by  eight  years.  Miss  Ann  had  evidently  passed  the 
dead-line  of  middle  age,  and  had  given  up  the  fight, 
and  was  fast  becoming  a  very  prim  and  very  proper 
old  lady,  but  Miss  Sarah,  being  out  of  range,  could 
still  smile,  and  nod  her  head,  and  shake  her  curls, 
and  laugh  little,  hollow,  girlish  laughs,  and  other 
wise  disport  herself  in  a  light  and  kittenish  way,  after 
the  manner  of  her  day  and  age.  All  of  which  be 
trayed  not  only  her  earnest  desire  to  please,  but  her 
increasing  anxiety  to  get  in  under  matrimonial  cover 
before  one  of  Father  Time's  sharpshooters  picked 
her  off,  and  thus  ended  her  youthful  career. 

The  guests  seated  on  either  side  of  these  two  pre 
siding  goddesses,  Oliver  was  convinced,  as  he  studied 
the  double  row  of  faces,  would  have  stretched  the 

187 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

wondering  eyelids  of  Kennedy  Square  to  their  utmost 
limits. 

Old  Mr.  Lang,  who  with  his  invalid  wife  occupied 
the  room  immediately  below  Fred's,  and  who  had 
been  so  nearly  drowned  out  the  night  before  because 
of  McFudd's  acrobatic  tendencies,  sat  on  Fred's  left. 
Properly  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind,  he  proved  to 
be  a  most  delightful  old  gentleman,  with  gold  spec 
tacles  and  snow-white  side-whiskers,  and  a  welcoming 
smile  for  everyone  who  entered.  Fred  said  that  the 
smile  never  wavered  even  when  the  old  gentleman 
had  been  up  all  night  with  his  wife. 

Across  the  table,  with  her  eye-glasses  trained  on 
Oliver,  half  concealed  by  a  huge  china  "  compoteer  " 
(to  quote  the  waitress),  and  at  present  filled  with  last 
week's  fruit,  caulked  with  almonds,  sat  Mrs.  South- 
wark  Boggs — sole  surviving  relic  of  S.  B.,  Esq.  This 
misfortune  she  celebrated  by  wearing  his  daguerreo 
type,  set  in  plain  gold,  as  a  brooch  with  which  she 
fastened  her  crocheted  collar.  She  was  a  thin,  faded, 
funereal-looking  person,  her  body  encased  in  a  black 
silk  dress,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  pressed  and 
ironed  over  night,  and  her  hands  in  black  silk  mitts 
which  reached  to  her  knuckles. 

On  Mrs.  Boggs's  right  sat  Bates — a  rising  young 
lawyer  with  political  tendencies — one  of  the  first  men 
to  cut  his  hair  so  "  Zou-Zou  "  that  it  stood  straight 
up  from  his  forehead;  and  next  to  him  Morgan,  the 

188 


MISS  TEETUM'S  LONG  TABLE 

editor,  who  pored  over  manuscript  while  his  coffee 
got  cold;  and  then  Nelson,  and  Webster,  and  Cum- 
mings  all  graded  in  Miss  Ann's  mind  as  being  eight, 
or  ten,  or  twelve-dollar-a-week  men,  depending  on 
the  rooms  that  they  occupied,  and  farther  along,  tow 
ard  Miss  Sarah,  Cranch  and  Cockburn — five-dollar 
boys  these  (Fred  was  another),  with  the  privilege  of 
lighting  their  own  coke  fires,  and  of  trimming  the 
wicks  and  filling  the  bulbs  of  their  own  burning-fluid 
lamps.  And  away  down  in  the  far  corner,  crum 
pled  up  in  his  chair,  crouched  the  cheery  little  hunch 
back,  Mr.  Crumbs,  who  kept  a  book-stall  on  Astor 
Place,  where  Bayard  Taylor,  Irving,  Halleck, 
Bryant,  and  many  another  member  of  the  Century 
Club  used  to  spend  their  late  afternoons  delving 
among  the  old  volumes  on  his  shelves. 

All  these  regular  boarders,  including  Fog-horo 
Cranch  and  Fred,  breakfasted  at  eight  o'clock. 
Waller,  the  painter,  and  Tomlins,  the  swell,  break 
fasted  at  nine.  As  to  that  descendant  of  the  Irish 
kings,  Mr.  Cornelius  McFudd,  he  rose  at  ten,  or 
twelve,  or  two,  just  as  the  spirit  (and  its  dilutions  of 
the  night  before)  moved  or  retarded  him,  and  break 
fasted  whenever  Miss  Ann  or  Miss  Sarah,  who  had 
presided  continuously  at  the  coffee-urn  from  eight 
to  ten,  could  spare  one  of  her  two  servants  to  carry 
a  tray  to  his  room. 

Last  and  by  no  means  least,  with  her  eyes  devour- 
189 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Ing  every  expression  that  flitted  across  the  new  ar 
rival's  face,  there  beamed  out  beside  Miss  Ann,  a 
tall,  willowy  young  person,  whom  Ered,  in  answer  to 
an  inquiring  lifting  of  Oliver's  eyebrows,  designated 
as  the  belle  of  the  house.  This  engaging  young 
woman  really  lived  with  her  mother,  in  the  next 
street,  but  flitted  in  and  out,  dining,  or  break 
fasting,  or  spending  a  week  at  a  time  with  her 
aunts,  the  Misses  Teetum,  whenever  an  opportunity 
offered — the  opportunity  being  a  vacant  and  non- 
paying  room,  one  of  which  she  was  at  the  time 
enjoying. 

This  fair  damsel,  who  was  known  to  the  boarders 
on  the  top  floor  as  "  our  Phemy,"  and  to  the  world  at 
large  as  Miss  Euphemia  Teetum — the  real  jewel  in 
her  name  was  Phosbe,  but  she  had  reset  it — had  been 
especially  beloved,  so  Fred  informed  Oliver,  by  every 
member  of  the  club  except  Waller,  who,  having 
lived  in  boarding-houses  all  his  life,  understood  her 
thoroughly.  Her  last  flame — the  fire  was  still  smoul 
dering — had  been  the  immaculate  Tomlins,  who  had 
won  her  heart  by  going  into  raptures,  in  one  of  his 
stage  whispers,  over  the  classic  outlines  of  her  face. 
This  outburst  resulted  in  Miss  Euphemia  appearing 
the  following  week  in  a  silk  gown,  a  Greek  fillet  and 
no  hoops — a  costume  which  Waller  faithfully  por 
trayed  on  the  side-wall  of  the  attic  the  night  of  her 
appearance — the  fillet  being  reproduced  by  a  strip  of 

190 


MISS  TEETUM'S  LONG  TABLE 

brass  which  the  artist  had  torn  from  his  easel  and 
nailed  to  the  plaster,  and  the  classic  curves  of  her  hair 
by  a  ripple  of  brown  paint. 

This  caricature  nearly  provoked  a  riot  before  the 
night  was  over,  the  whole  club,  including  even  the 
fun-loving  McFudd,  denouncing  Waller's  act  as  an 
outrage.  In  fact,  the  Hibernian  himself  had  once 
been  so  completely  taken  off  his  feet — it  was  the  first 
week  of  his  stay — by  the  winning  ways  of  the  young 
lady,  that  Miss  Ann  had  begun  to  have  high  hopes  of 
-  Euphemia's  being  finally  installed  mistress  in  one  of 
those  shadowy  estates  which  the  distinguished  Hiber 
nian  described  with  such  eloquence.  That  these 
hopes  did  not  materialize  was  entirely  due  to  Cock- 
burn,  who  took  pains  to  enlighten  the  good  woman 
upon  the  intangible  character  of  the  Hibernian's  pos 
sessions,  thus  saving  the  innocent  maiden  from  the 
clutches  of  the  bold,  bad  adventurer.  At  least,  that 
had  been  Cockburn's  account  of  it  when  he  came 
upstairs. 

But  it  was  at  dinner  that  same  night — for  Oliver 
at  Fred's  pressing  invitation  had  come  back  to  dinner 
— that  the  full  galaxy  of  guests  and  regulars  burst 
upon  our  hero.  Then  came  not  only  Miss  Euphemia 
Teetum  in  a  costume  especially  selected  for  Oliver's 
capture,  but  a  person  still  more  startling  and  impos 
ing — so  imposing,  in  fact,  that  when  she  entered  the 
room  one-half  of  the  gentlemen  present  made  little 

191 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

backward  movements  with  the  legs  of  their  chairs, 
as  if  intending  to  rise  to  their  feet  in  honor  of  her 
presence. 

This  prominent  figure  in  fashionable  life,  who  had 
now  settled  herself  on  the  right  of  Miss  Ann — the 
post  of  honor  at  the  tr.ble — and  who  was  smiling  in 
so  gracious  and  condescending  a  manner  as  her  eye 
lighted  on  the  several  recipients  of  her  favor,  was 
none  other  than  the  distinguished  Mrs.  Schuyler  Van 
Tassell,  of  Tarrytown,  another  bird  of  passage,  who 
had  left  her  country-seat  on  the  Hudson  to  spend  the 
winter  months  in  what  she  called  the  delights  of  "  up 
per-tandem."  She  belonged  to  an  ancient  family — or, 
at  least,  her  husband  did — he  was  under  the  sod,  poor 
soul,  and  therefore  at  peace — and,  having  inherited 
his  estate — a  considerable  one — was  to  be  treated 
with  every  distinction. 

These  several  personages  of  low  and  high  degree 
interested  our  young  gentleman  quite  as  much  as 
our  young  gentleman  interested  them.  He  made 
friends  with  them  all — especially  with  the  ladies,  who 
all  agreed  that  he  was  a  most  charming  and  accom 
plished  youth.  This  good  opinion  became  permanent 
when  Oliver  had  paid  each  in  turn  the  compliment 
of  rising  from  his  seat  when  any  one  of  them  entered 
the  room,  as  much  a  habit  with  the  young  fellow  as 
the  taking  off  of  his  hat  when  he  came  into  a  house, 
but  which  was  so  rare  a  courtesy  at  Miss  Teetum's 

192 


MISS  TEETUM'S  LONG  TABLE 

that  each  recipient  appropriated  the  compliment  as 
personal  to  herself. 

These  sentiments  of  admiration  were  shared,  and 
to  an  alarming  degree,  by  Miss  Euphemia  herself, 
who,  on  learning  later  that  Oliver  had  decided  to 
occupy  half  of  Fred's  room  through  the  winter, 
had  at  once  determined  to  remain  during  the  week, 
the  better  to  lay  siege  to  his  heart.  This  resolu 
tion,  it  is  fair  to  Oliver  to  say,  she  abandoned  before 
dinner  was  over,  when  her  experienced  eye  detected 
a  certain  amused  if  not  derisive  smile  playing  around 
the  corners  of  Oliver's  mouth;  a  discovery  which  so 
impressed  the  young  woman  that  she  left  him  se 
verely  alone  ever  after. 

And  so  it  was  that  Oliver  unpacked  his  trunk — the 
same  old  hair  trunk,  studded  with  brass  nails,  that 
had  held  his  father's  wardrobe  at  college — spread  out 
and  tacked  up  the  various  knick-knacks  which  his 
mother  and  Sue  and  Miss  Clendenning  had  given  him 
when  he  had  left  the  old  home,  and  began  to  make 
himself  comfortable  on  the  top  floor  of  Miss  Teetum's 
boarding-house  on  Union  Square. 


CHAPTEE  X 

MCFUDD'S  BRASS  BAND 

Our  hero  had  been  installed  at  Miss  Teetum's  for 
a  month  or  more,  when  one  night  at  dinner  a  tiny 
envelope  about  the  size  of  a  visiting-card  was  brought 
in  by  the  middle-aged  waitress  and  laid  beside  Sim- 
mons's  plate.  The  envelope  contained  six  orchestra 
seats  at  the  Winter  Garden  and  was  accompanied  by 
a  note  which  read  as  follows :  "  Bring  some  of  the 
boys;  the  piece  drags." 

The  musician  studied  the  note  carefully  and  a 
broad  smile  broke  over  his  face.  As  one  of  the  first 
violins  at  the  Winter  Garden,  with  a  wide  acquaint 
ance  among  desirable  patrons  of  the  theatre,  he  had 
peculiar  facilities  for  obtaining  free  private  boxes 
and  orchestra  chairs  not  only  at  his  own  theatre,  but 
often  at  Wallack's  in  Broome  Street  and  the  old  Bow 
ery.  Simmons  was  almost  always  sure  to  have 
tickets  when  the  new  piece  needed  booming,  or  when 
an  old  play  failed  to  amuse  and  the  audiences  had 
begun  to  shrink.  Indeed,  the  mystery  of  Mrs. 
Schuyler  Yan  Tassell's  frequent  appearance  in  the 
left-hand  proscenium  box  at  the  Winter  Garden  on 

194 


McFUDD'S  BRASS  BAKD 

Friday  nights — a  mystery  unexplained  among  the 
immediate  friends  in  Tarrytown,  who  knew  how  she 
husbanded  her  resources  despite  her  accredited 
wealth — was  no  mystery  at  all  to  the  guests  at  Miss 
Teetum's  table,  who  were  in  the  habit  of  seeing 
just  such  tiny  envelopes  handed  to  Simmons  during 
soup,  and  duly  passed  by  him  to  that  distinguished 
leader  of  society.  Should  more  than  two  tickets  be 
enclosed,  Mrs.  Van  T.  would,  perhaps,  invite  Mr. 
Ruffle-shirt  Tomlins,  or  some  other  properly  attired 
gerson,  to  accompany  her — never  Miss  Ann  or  the 
little  hunchback,  who  dearly  loved  the  play,  but  who 
could  seldom  afford  to  go — never  anybody,  in  fact, 
who  wore  plain  clothes  or  looked  a  compromising 
acquaintance. 

On  this  night,  however,  Pussy  Me-ow  Simmons, 
ignoring  Mrs.  Van  Tassell,  turned  to  Oliver. 

"  Ollie,"  he  whispered — the  formalities  had  ceased 
between  the  members  of  the  Skylarks — "  got  any 
thing  to  do  to-night?  " 

"No;  why?" 

And  then,  Simmons,  with  various  imaginary 
poundings  of  imaginary  canes  on  the  threadbare  car 
pet  beneath  his  chair,  and  with  sundry  half-smoth 
ered  bursts  of  real  laughter  in  which  Fred  and  Oliver 
joined,  unfolded  his  programme  for  the  evening — a 
programme  which  was  agreed  to  so  rapturously  that 
the  trio  before  dinner  was  over  excused  themselves 

195 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIYEK  HORN 

to  their  immediate  neighbors  and  bounded  upstairs, 
three  steps  at  a  time.  There  they  pulled  the  Walrus 
out  of  his  bed  and  woke  up  McFudd,  who  had  gone  to 
sleep  before  dinner,  and  whom  nobody  had  called. 
Then  having  sent  my  Lord  Cockburn  to  find  RufHe- 
shirt  Tomlins,  who  by  this  time  was  paying  court  to 
Miss  Euphemia  in  the  front  parlor,  and  having  pinned 
a  ticket  to  Mr.  Fog-horn  Cranch's  door,  with  instruc 
tions  to  meet  them  in  the  lobby  the  moment  he  re 
turned,  they  all  slipped  on  their  overcoats,  picked  up 
their  canes,  and  started  for  the  theatre. 

Six  young  fellows,  all  with  red  blood  in  their  veins, 
steel  springs  under  their  toes  and  laughter  in  their 
hearts!  Six  comrades,  pals,  good-fellows,  skipping 
down  the  avenue  as  gay  as  colts  and  happy  as  boys — - 
no  thought  for  to-day  and  no  care  for  to-morrow  I 
Each  man  with  a  free  ticket  in  his  pocket  and  a  show 
ahead  of  him.  No  wonder  the  bluecoats  looked  aftef 
them  and  smiled;  no  wonder  the  old  fellow  with  the 
shaky  legs,  waiting  at  the  corner  for  one  of  the 
squad  to  help  him  over,  gave  a  sigh  as  he  watched 
McFudd,  with  cane  in  air,  drilling  his  recruits,  all  five 
abreast.  ~No  wonder  the  tired  shop-girls  glanced  at 
them  enviously  as  they  swung  into  Broadway  chant 
ing  the  "  Dead  Man's  Chorus,"  with  Oliver's  voice 
sounding  clear  as  a  bell  above  the  din  of  the  streets. 

The  play  was  a  melodrama  of  the  old,  old  school. 
There  was  a  young  heroine  in  white,  and  a  handsome 

193 


McFUDD'S  BRASS  BAKD 

lover  in  top-boots  and  white  trousers,  and  a  cruel 
uncle  who  wanted  her  property.  And  there  was  a 
particularly  brutal  villain  with  leery  eyes,  ugly 
mouth,  with  one  tooth  gone,  and  an  iron  jaw  like  a 
bull-dog's.  He  was  attired  in  a  fur  cap,  brown  cor 
duroy  jacket,  with  a  blood-red  handkerchief  twisted 
about  his  throat,  and  he  carried  a  bludgeon.  When 
the  double-dyed  villain  proceeded  in  the  third  act  to 
pound  the  head  of  the  lovely  maiden  to  a  jelly  at  the 
instigation  of  the  base  uncle,  concealed  behind  a 
4painted  tree-trunk,  and  the  lover  rushed  in  and  tried 
to  save  her,  every  pair  of  hands  except  Oliver's  came 
together  in  raptures  of  applause,  assisted  by  a  vigor 
ous  hammering  of  canes  on  the  floor. 

"  Pound  away,  Ollie,"  whispered  Simmons; 
"that's  what  we  came  for;  you  are  spoiling  all  our 
fun.  The  manager  is  watching  us.  Pound  away,  I 
tell  you.  There  he  is  inside  that  box." 

"  I  won't,"  said  Oliver,  in  a  tone  of  voice  strangely 
in  contrast  with  the  joyousness  of  an  hour  before. 

"  Then  you  won't  get  any  more  free  tickets/' 
muttered  Simmons  in  surprise. 

"  I  don't  want  them.  I  don't  believe  in  murdering 
people  on  the  stage,  or  anywhere  else.  That  man's 
face  is  horrible ;  I'm  sorry  I  came." 

Simmons  laughed,  and,  shielding  his  mouth  with 
his  hand,  repeated  Oliver's  outburst  to  "Waller,  who, 
having  first  sent  news  of  it  down  the  line,  reached 

197 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

over  and  shook  Oliver's  hand  gravely,  while  he  wiped 
a  theatrical  tear  from  his  eye;  while  my  Lord  Cock- 
burn,  with  feet  and  hands  still  busy,  returned  word 
to  Oliver  by  Tomlins,  "  not  to  make  a  colossal  ass  of 
himself."  Oliver  bore  their  ridicule  good-naturedly, 
but  without  receding  from  his  opinion  in  any  way, 
a  fact  which  ultimately  raised  him  in  the  estimation 
'•f  the  group.  Only  when  the  villain  was  thrown  over 
Jhe  pasteboard  cliff  into  a  canvas  sea  by  the  gentle 
man  in  top-boots,  to  be  devoured  by  sharks  or  cut 
up  by  pirates,  or  otherwise  disposed  of  as  befitted 
so  blood-thirsty  and  cruel  a  monster,  did  Oliver  join 
in  the  applause. 

The  play  over,  and  Simmons  having  duly  reported 
to  the  manager — who  was  delighted  with  the  activity 
of  the  feet,  but  who  advised  that  next  time  the  sticks 
be  left  at  home — the  happy  party  sailed  up  Broad 
way,  this  time  by  threes  and  twos,  swinging  their 
canes  as  before,  and  threading  their  way  in  and  out 
of  the  throngs  that  filled  the  street. 

The  first  stop  was  made  at  the  corner  of  Thirteenth 
Street  by  McFudd,  who  turned  his  troop  abruptly  to 
tne  right  and  marched  them  down  a  flight  of  steps 
into  a  cellar,  where  they  immediately  attacked  a  huge 
wash-tub  filled  with  steamed  clams,  and  covered  with 
a  white  cloth  to  keep  them  hot.  This  was  the  bar's 
free  lunch.  The  clams  devoured — six  each — and  the 
necessary  beers  paid  for,  the  whole  party  started  to 

198 


McFUDD'S  BEASS  BAND 

retrace  their  steps,  when  Simmons  stopped  to  wel« 
come  a  new-comer  \vho  had  entered  the  cellar  un- 
perceived  by  the  barkeeper,  and  who  was  bending 
over  the  wash-tub  of  clams,  engaged  in  picking  out 
the  smallest  of  the  bivalves  with  the  end  of  an  iron 
fork.  He  had  such  a  benevolent,  kindly  face,  and 
Was  so  courtly  in  his  bearing,  and  spoke  with  so  soft 
and  gentle  a  voice,  that  Oliver,  who  stood  next  to 
Simmons,  lingered  to  listen. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Simmons,"  cried  the  old  gentleman, 
*«we  missed  you  to-night.  When  are  you  coming 
back  to  us?  The  orchestra  is  really  getting  to  be  de 
plorable.  Miss  Gannon  quite  broke  down  in  her 
song.  We  must  protest,  my  boy;  we  must  protest. 
I  saw  you  in  front,  but  you  should  be  wielding  the 
baton.  And  is  this  young  gentleman  one  of  your 
friends  ?  " 

"  Yes — Mr.  Horn.  Ollie,  let  me  introduce  you  to 
Mr.  Gilbert,  the  actor  "• — and  he  laid  his  hand  on 
Oliver's  shoulder — "  dear  John  Gilbert,  as  we  always 
call  him." 

Oliver  looked  up  into  the  kindly,  sweet  face  of  the 
man,  and  a  curious  sensation  passed  over  him.  Could 
this  courtly,  perfectly  well-bred  old  gentleman,  with 
his  silver-white  hair,  beaming  smile  and  gentle  voice, 
the  equal  of  any  of  his  father's  guests,  be  an  actor? 
Could  he  possibly  belong  to  the  profession  which, 
of  all  others,  Oliver  had  been  taught  to  despise?  The 

199 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

astonishment  of  our  young  hero  was  so  great  that 
for  a  moment  he  could  not  speak. 

Simmons  thought  he  read  Oliver's  mind,  and  came 
to  his  rescue. 

"  My  friend,  Mr.  Horn,  did  not  like  the  play  to 
night,  Mr.  Gilbert,"  he  said.  "  He  thinks  the 
death-scene  was  horrible  " — and  Simmons  glanced 
smiling  at  the  others  who  stood  at  a  little  distance 
watching  the  interview  with  great  interest. 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me,  you  don't  say  so.  What  was 
it  you  objected  to,  may  I  ask? "  There  was  a  trace 
of  anxiety  in  his  voice. 

"  Why,  the  murder-scene,  sir.  It  seemed  to  me 
too  dreadful  to  kill  a  woman  in  that  way.  I  haven't 
forgotten  it  yet,"  and  a  distressed  look  passed  over 
Oliver's  face.  "  But  then  I  have  seen  but  very  few 
plays,"  he  added — "  none  like  that." 

The  old  actor  looked  at  him  with  a  relieved  expres 
sion. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  see.  Yes,  you're  indeed  right.  As 
you  say,  it  is  quite  a  dreadful  scene." 

"  Oh,  then  you've  seen  it  yourself,  sir,"  said  Oliver, 
in  a  relieved  tone. 

The  old  actor's  eyes  twinkled.  He,  too,  had  read 
the  young  man's  mind — not  a  difficult  task  when  one 
looked  down  into  Oliver's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  many,  many  times,"  he  answered  with  a 
smile.  "  I  have  known  it  for  years.  In  the  :>ld  days,, 

200 


McFUDD'S  BKASS  BAND 

when  they  would  smash  the  poor  lady's  head,  they 
used  to  have  a  pan  of  gravel  which  they  would 
crunch  with  a  stick  to  imitate  the  breaking  of  the 
bones.  It  was  quite  realistic  from  the  front,  but  that 
was  given  up  long  ago.  How  did  you  like  the  busi 
ness  to-night,  Mr.  Simmons? "  and  he  turned  to  the 
musician. 

"  Oh,  admirable,  sir.  We  all  thought  it  had  never 
been  better  played  or  better  put  on,"  and  he  glanced 
again  toward  his  companions,  who  stood  apart,  lis 
tening  breathlessly  to  every  word  that  fell  from  the 
actor's  lips. 

"  Ah,  I  am  glad  of  it.  Brougham  will  be  so  pleased 
— and  yet  it  shocked  you,  Mr.  Horn — and  you  really 
think  the  poor  lady  minded  it?  Dear  me!  How 
pleased  she  will  be  when  I  tell  her  the  impression 
it  all  made  upon  you.  She's  worked  so  hard  over 
the  part  and  has  been  so  nervous  about  it.  I  left  her 
only  a  moment  ago — she  and  her  husband  wanted  me 
to  take  supper  with  them  at  Biley's — the  new  res 
taurant  on  University  Place,  you  know,  famous  for 
its  devilled  crabs.  But  I  always  like  to  come  here 
for  my  clams.  Allow  me  a  moment —  "  and  he  bent 
over  the  steaming  tub,  and  skewering  the  contents  of 
a  pair  of  shells  with  his  iron  fork  held  it  out  toward 
Oliver. 

"  Let  me  beg  of  you,  Mr.  Horn,  to  taste  this  clam. 
I  am  quite  sure  it  is  a  particularly  savory  one.  After 

201 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

this,  my  dear  young  friend,  I  hope  you'll  have  a  bet 
ter  opinion  of  me."  And  his  eye  twinkled.  "  I  am 
really  better  than  I  look — indeed  I  am — and  so,  my 
dear  boy,  is  this  clam.  Come,  come,  it  is  getting 
cold." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  e  a  better  opinion  '  of  you, 
Mr.  Gilbert  ?  "  stammered  Oliver.  He  had  been  com 
pletely  captivated  by  the  charm  of  the  actor's  man 
ner.  "  Why  shouldn't  I  think  well  of  you? — I  don't 
understand." 

"  Why — because  I  strangled  the  poor  lady  to 
night.  You  know,  of  course — that  it  was  I  who 
played  the  villain." 

"  You!  "  exclaimed  Oliver.  ''  "No,  I  did  not,  sir. 
Why,  Mr.  Gilbert,  I  can't  realize — oh,  I  hope  you'll 
forgive  me  for  what  I've  said.  I've  only  been  in  ]STew 
York  a  short  time,  and ' 

The  old  gentleman  cut  short  Oliver's  explanation 
with  a  wave  of  his  fork,  and  looking  down  into  the 
boy's  face,  said  in  a  serious  tone : 

"  My  son,  you're  quite  right.  Quite  right — and  I 
like  you  all  the  better  for  it.  All  such  plays  are  dread 
ful.  I  feel  just  as  you  do  about  them,  but  what  can 
we  actors  do?  The  public  will  have  it  that  way." 

Another  little  prejudice  toppled  from  its  pedestal, 
another  household  tradition  of  Oliver's  smashed  into 
a  thousand  pieces  at  his  feet!  This  rubbing  and 
grinding  process  of  man  against  man;  this  seeing  with 

202 


McFUDD'S  BRASS  BAND 

one's  own  eyes  and  not  another's  was  fast  rounding 
out  and  perfecting  the  impressionable  clay  of  our 
young  gentleman's  mind.  It  was  a  lesson,  too,  the 
scribe  is  delighted  to  say,  which  our  hero  never  for 
got;  nor  did  he  ever  forget  the  man  who  taught  it. 
One  of  his  greatest  delights  in  after-years  was  to  raise 
his  hat  to  this  incomparable  embodiment  of  the  dig 
nity  and  courtliness  of  the  old  school.  The  old  gen 
tleman  had  long  since  forgotten  the  young  fellow, 
but  that  made  no  difference  to  Oliver — he  would 
fcross  the  street  any  time  to  lift  his  hat  to  dear  John 
Gilbert. 

The  introduction  of  the  other  members  of  the  club 
to  the  villain  being  over — they  had  stood  the  whole- 
time,  they  were  listening  to  the  actor,  each  iiead  un 
covered — McFudd  again  marshalled  his  troop  and 
proceeded  up  Broadway,  where,  at  Oliver's  request, 
they  were  halted  at  the  pedestal  of  the  big  Bronze 
Horse  and  within  sight  of  their  own  quarters. 

Here  McFudd  insisted  that  the  club  should  sing 
"  God  Save  the  Queen  "  to  the  Father  of  his  Country, 
where  he  sat  astride  of  his  horse,  which  was  accord 
ingly  done,  much  to  the  delight  of  a  couple  of  night- 
watchmen,  who  watched  the  entire  performance  and 
who,  upon  McFudd's  subsequent  inspection,  proved 
to  be  fellow-countrymen  of  the  distinguished  Hi 
bernian. 

Had  the  buoyant  and  irrepressible  Irishman  been 
203 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

content  with  this  patriotic  outburst  as  the  final  wind- 
ing-up  of  the  night's  outing,  and  had  he  then  and 
there  betaken  himself  and  his  fellows  off  to  bed,  the 
calamity  which  followed,  and  which  so  nearly  wrecked 
the  Skylarks,  might  have  been  avoided. 

It  is  difficult  at  any  time  to  account  for  the  work 
ings  of  Fate  or  to  follow  the  course  of  its  agents.  The 
track  of  an  earth-worm  destroys  a  dam;  the  parting 
of  a  wire  wrecks  a  bridge;  the  breaking  of  a  root 
starts  an  avalanche;  the  flaw  in  an  axle  dooms  a 
train;  the  sting  of  a  microbe  depopulates  a  city.  But 
none  of  these  unseen,  mysterious  agencies  was  at 
work — nothing  so  trivial  wrecked  the  Skylarks. 

It  was  a  German  street-band ! 

A  band  whose  several  members  had  watched 
McFudd  and  his  party  from  across  the  street,  and 
who  had  begun  limbering  their  instruments  before 
the  sextet  had  ceased  singing;  regarding  the  situa 
tion,  no  doubt,  as  pregnant  with  tips. 

McFudd  did  not  give  the  cornet  time  to  draw  his 
instrument  from  its  woollen  bag  before  he  had  him 
by  the  arm. 

"  Don't  put  a  mouthful  of  wind  into  that  horn  of 
yours  until  I  spake  to  ye,"  he  cried  in  vociferous 
tones. 

The  leader  stopped  and  looked  at  him  in  a  dazed 
way. 

"  I  have  an  idea,  gentlemen,"  added  McFudd, 
204 


McFUDD'S  BRASS 

turning  to  his  companions,  and  tapping  his  forehead. 
"  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  this  music  would  be  wasted 
on  the  noight  air,  and  so  with  your  parmission  I  pro 
pose  to  transfer  this  orchestra  to  the  top  flure,  where 
we  can  listen  to  their  chunes  at  our  leisure.  Right 
about,  face!  Forward!  March!  "  and  McFudd 
advanced  upon  the  band,  wheeled  the  drum  around, 
and,  locking  arms  with  the  cornet,  started  across  the 
street  for  the  stone  steps. 

"  Not  a  word  out  of  any  o'  ye  till  I  get  'em  in," 
McFudd  continued  in  a  low  voice,  fumbling  in  his 
pocket  for  his  night-key. 

The  musicians  obeyed  mechanically  and  tiptoed 
one  by  one  inside  the  dimly  lighted  hall,  followed  by 
Oliver  and  the  others. 

"  ISTow  take  off  your  shoes ;  you've  four  flights  of 
stairs  to  crawl  up,  and  if  ye  make  a  noise  until  I'm 
ready  for  ye,  off  goes  a  dollar  of  your  pay." 

The  bass-drum  carefully  backed  his  instrument 
against  the  wall,  sat  down  on  the  floor,  and  began 
pulling  off  his  boots:  the  cornet  and  bassoon  followed; 
the  clarionet  wore  only  his  gum  shoes,  and  so  was  per 
mitted  to  keep  them  on. 

"  Now,  Walley,  me  boy,  do  you  go  ahead  and  turn 
up  the  gas  and  open  the  piano,  and  Cockburn,  old 
man,  will  ye  kindly  get  the  blower  and  tongs  out  of 
Freddie's  room  and  the  scuttle  out  of  Tomlins's  closet 
and  the  Chinese  gong  that  hangs  over  me  bed?  And 

205 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

all  you  fellers  go  ahead  treading  on  whispers,  d'ye 
moind?  "  said  McEudd  under  his  breath.  "  I'll  bring 
up  this  gang  with  me.  Not  a  breath  out  of  any  o'  yez 
remimber,  till  I  get  there.  The  drum's  unhandy  and 
we  got  to  go  slow  wid  it,"  and  he  slipped  the  strap 
over  his  head  and  started  upstairs,  followed  by  the 
band. 

The  ascent  was  made  without  a  sound  until  old 
Mr.  Lang's  door  was  reached,  when  McFudd's  foot 
slipped,  and,  but  for  the  bassoonist's  head,  both  the 
Irishman  and  the  drum  would  have  rolled  down 
stairs.  Lang  heard  the  sound,  and  recognizing  the 
character  of  the  attendant  imprecation,  did  not  get 
up.  "  It's  only  McFudd,"  he  said  quietly  to  his  sud 
denly  awakened  wife. 

Once  safe  upon  the  attic  floor  the  band  who  were 
entering  with  great  gusto  into  the  spirit  of  the  occa 
sion,  arranged  themselves  in  a  half-circle  about  the 
piano,  replaced  their  shoes,  stripped  their  instruments 
of  their  coverings — the  cornetist  breathing  noiseless 
ly  into  the  mouth-pieces  to  thaw  out  the  frost — and 
stood  at  attention  for  McFudd's  orders. 

By  this  time  Simmons  had  taken  his  seat  at  the 
piano;  Cockburn  held  the  blower  and  tongs;  Cranch, 
who  on  coming  in  had  ignored  the  card  tacked  to  his 
door,  and  who  was  found  fast  asleep  in  his  chair,  was 
given  the  coal-scuttle;  and  little  Tornlins  grasped  his 
own  wash-basin  in  one  hand  and  Fred's  poker  in  the 

206 


McFUDD'S  BRASS  BAND 

other.  Oliver  was  to  sing  the  air,  and  Fred  was  to  beat 
a  tattoo  on  Waller's  door  with  the  butt  end  of  a  cane. 
The  gas  had  been  turned  up  and  every  kerosene  lamp 
had  been  lighted  and  ranged  about  the  hall.  McFudd 
threw  off  his  coat  and  vest,  cocked  a  Scotch  smoking- 
cap  over  one  eye,  and  seizing  the  Chinese  gong  in 
one  hand  and  the  wooden  mallet  in  the  other,  climbed 
upon  the  piano  and  faced  his  motley  orchestra. 

"  Attintion,  gentlemen,"  whispered  McFudd. 

c<  The  first  chune  will  be  '  Old  Dog  Tray,'  because  it 
begins  wid  a  lovely  howl.  Remimber  now,  when  I 
hit  this  gong  that's  the  signal  for  yez  to  begin,  and 
ye'll  all  come  together  wid  wan  smash.  Then  the 
band  will  play  a  bar  or  two,  and  then  every  man 
Jack  o'  ye  will  go  strong  on  the  chorus.  Are  yez 
ready?  " 

McFudd  swung  his  mallet  over  his  head;  poised  it 
for  an  instant;  ran  his  eye  around  the  circle  with  the 
air  of  an  impresario;  saw  that  the  drum  was  in  posi 
tion,  the  horns  and  clarionet  ready,  the  blower,  scut 
tle,  tongs,  and  other  instruments  of  torture  in  place, 
and  hit  the  gong  with  all  hi?  might. 

The  crash  that  followed  woke  every  boarder  in 
the  house  and  tumbled  half  of  them  out  of  their  beds. 

Long  before  the  chorus  had  been  reached  all  the 
doors  had  been  thrown  open,  and  the  halls  and  pas 
sageways  filled  with  the  startled  boarders.  Then  cer 
tain  mysterious-looking  figures  in  bed-gowns,  water- 

207 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

proofs,  and  bath-robes  began  bounding  up  the  stairs, 
and  a  collection  of  dishevelled  heads  were  thrust 
through  the  door  of  the  attic.  Some  of  the  sudden 
ly  awakened  boarders  tried  to  stop  the  din  by  protest j 
others  threatened  violence;  one  or  two  grinned  with 
delight.  Among  these  last  was  the  little  hunchback, 
swathed  in  a  blanket  like  an  Indian  chief,  and  bare 
footed.  He  had  rushed  upstairs  at  the  first  sound 
as  fast  as  his  little  legs  could  carry  him,  and  was  peer 
ing  under  the  arms  of  the  others,  rubbing  his  sides 
with  glee  and  laughing  like  a  boy.  Mrs.  Schuyler  Van 
Tassell,  whose  head  and  complexion  were  not  ready 
for  general  inspection,  had  kept  her  door  partly 
closed,  opening  it  only  wide  enough  when  the  other 
boarders  rushed  by  to  let  her  voice  through — always 
an  unpleasant  organ  when  that  lady  had  lost  her 
temper. 

As  the  face  of  each  new  arrival  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  McFudd  would  bow  gracefully  in  recogni 
tion  of  the  honor  of  its  presence,  and  redouble  his 
attack  on  the  gong.  The  noise  he  produced  was  only 
equalled  by  that  of  the  drum,  which  never  ceased  for 
an  instant — McFudd's  orders  being  to  keep  that  in 
strument  going  irrespective  of  time  or  tune. 

In  the  midst  of  this  uproar  of  brass,  strings,  sheep 
skin,  wash-bowls,  broken  coal,  pokers  and  tongs,  & 
lean  figure  in  curl-papers  and  slippers,  bright  red 
calico  wrapper  reaching  to  the  floor,  and  a  lighted 

208 


Gentlemen,  this  is  outrageous!" 


McFUDD'S  BRASS  BAND 

candle  in  one  hand,  forced  its  way  through  the  crowd 
at  the  door  and  stood  out  in  the  glare  of  the  gaslights 
facing  McFudd. 

It  was  Miss  Ann  Teetum ! 

Instantly  a  silence  fell  upon  the  room. 

"  Gentlemen,  this  is  outrageous !  "  she  cried  in  a 
voice  that  ripped  through  the  air  like  a  saw.  "  I  have 
put  up  with  these  disgraceful  performances  as  long  as 
I  am  going  to.  Not  one  of  you  shall  stay  in  my  house 
another  night.  Out  you  go  in  the  morning,  every 
ona  of  you,  bag  and  baggage !  " 

McFudd  attempted  to  make  an  apology.  Oliver 
stepped  forward,  the  color  mounting  to  his  cheeksj 
and  Waller  began  a  protest  at  the  unwarrantable 
intrusion,  but  the  infuriated  little  woman  waved 
them  all  aside  and  turning  abruptly  marched  back 
through  the  door  and  down  the  staircase,  preceded 
by  the  other  female  boarders.  The  little  hunchback 
alone  remained.  He  was  doubled  up  in  a  knot,  wip 
ing  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  his  breath  gone  from  ex 
cessive  laughter. 

The  Skylarkers  looked  at  each  other  in  blank  as 
tonishment.  One  of  the  long-cherished  traditions 
of  the  house  was  the  inviolability  of  this  attic.  Its 
rooms  were  let  with  an  especial  privilege  guarantee 
ing  its  privacy,  with  free  license  to  make  all  the  noise 
possible,  provided  the  racket  was  confined  to  that  one 
floor.  So  careful  had  been  its  occupants  to  observe 

209 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

this  rule,  that  noisy  as  they  all  were  when  once  on 
the  top  floor,  every  man  unlocked  the  front  door  at 
night  with  the  touch  of  a  burglar  and  crept  upstairs 
as  noiselessly  as  a  footpad. 

"  I'm  sorry,  men,"  said  McFudd,  looking  into  the 
astounded  faces  about  him.  "  I'm  the  last  man,  as 
ye  know,  to  hurt  anybody's  feelings.  But  what  the 
divil's  got  into  the  old  lady?  Who'd  'a'  thought  she 
would  have  heard  a  word  of  it  down  where  she  sleeps 
in  the  basement?  " 

"'Tis  the  Van  Tassell,"  grunted  the  Walrus. 
4t  She's  so  mesmerized  the  old  woman  lately  that  she 
•don't  know  her  own  mind." 

"  What  makes  you  think  she  put  her  up  to  it,  Wal 
ler?  "  asked  Cranch. 

"  I  don't  think — but  it's  just  like  her,"  answered 
Waller,  with  illogical  prejudice. 

"  My  eye !  wasn't  she  a  beauty !  "  laughed  Fred, 
and  he  picked  up  a  bit  of  charcoal  and  began  an  out 
line  of  the  wrapper  and  slippers  on  the  side-wall. 

Tomlins,  Cranch,  and  the  others  had  no  sugges 
tions  to  offer.  Their  minds  were  too  much  occupied 
in  wondering  what  was  going  to  become  of  them  in 
the  morning. 

The  German  band  by  this  time  had  regained  their 
asual  solidity.  The  leader  seemed  immensely  re> 
lieved.  He  had  evidently  expected  the  next  appari 
tion  to  be  a  bluecoat  with  a  pair  of  handcuffs. 

210 


McFUDD'S  BRASS  BAND 

"  Put  their  green  jackets  on  'em,"  McFudd  said 
to  the  leader  quietly,  pointing  to  the  instruments. 
"  We're  much  obliged  to  you  and  your  men  for 
coming  up,"  and  he  slipped  some  notes  into  the 
leader's  hand.  "  Now  get  downstairs,  every  man 
o'  ye,  as  aisy  as  if  ye  were  walking  on  eggs.  Cranch, 
old  man,  will  ye  see  'em  out,  to  kape  that  infernal 
drum  from  butting  into  the  Van  Tassell's  door,  or 
we'll  have  another  hornet's  nest.  Begorra,  there's 
wan  thing  very  sure — it's  little  baggage  I'll  have  to 

move  out." 

* 

The  next  morning  a  row  of  six  vacant  seats  stared 
Miss  Ann  out  of  countenance.  The  outcasts  had  risen 
early  and  had  gone  to  Riley's  for  their  breakfast. 
Miss  Ann  sat  at  the  coffee-urn  as  stiff  and  erect  as  an 
avenging  judge.  Lofty  purpose  and  grim  determi 
nation  were  written  in  every  line  of  her  face.  Mrs. 
Van  Tassell  was  not  in  evidence.  Her  nerves  had 
been  so  shattered  by  the  "  night's  orgy,"  she  had  said 
to  Miss  Ann,  that  she  should  breakfast  in  her  room. 
She  further  notified  Miss  Teetum  that  she  should  at 
once  withdraw  her  protecting  presence  from  the  es 
tablishment,  and  leave  it  without  a  distinguished 
social  head,  if  the  dwellers  on  the  top  floor  remained 
another  day  under  the  same  roof  with  herself. 

An  ominous  silence  and  depressing  gloom  seemed 
to  hang  over  everybody.  Several  of  the  older  men 

211 


pushed  back  their  plates  and  began  drumming  on  the 
table-cloth  with  their  fingers,  a  far-away  look  in  their 
eyes.  One  or  two  talked  in  whispers,  their  coffee  un- 
tasted.  Old  Mr.  Lang  looked  down  the  line  of  empty 
seats  and  took  his  place  with  a  dejected  air.  He  was 
the  oldest  man  in  the  house  and  the  oldest  boarder; 
this  gave  him  certain  privileges,  one  being  to  speak 
his  mind. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  unfolding  his  napkin  and 
facing  Miss  Ann,  "  that  you  have  ordered  the  boys 
out  of  the  house?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  snapped  out  Miss  Teetum. 

Everybody  looked  up.  No  one  recognized  the 
tone  of  her  voice,  it  was  so  sharp  and  bitter. 

"Why,  may  I  ask?" 

"  I  will  not  have  my  house  turned  into  a  bear 
garden,  that's  why!  " 

"  That's  better  than  a  graveyard,"  retorted  Mr. 
Lang.  "  That's  what  the  house  would  be  without 
them.  I  can't  understand  why  you  object.  You 
sleep  in  the  basement  and  shouldn't  hear  a  sound; 
my  wife  and  I  sleep  under  them  every  night.  If 
we  can  stand  it,  you  can.  You  send  the  boys  away, 
Miss  Teetum,  and  we'll  move  out." 

Miss  Ann  winced  under  the  shot,  but  she  did  not 
answer. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you're  going  to  turn  the  young 
gentlemen  into  the  street,  Miss  Ann? "  whined  Mrs. 

212 


McFWDD'S  BKASS  BAND 

Southwark  Boggs  in  an  injured  tone,  from  her  end  of 
the  table.  "  Are  we  going  to  have  no  young  life  in 
the  house  at  all?  I  won't  stay  a  day  after  they're 
gone." 

Miss  Teetum  changed  color,  but  she  looked  straight 
ahead  of  her.  She  evidently  did  not  want  her  private 
affairs  discussed  at  the  table. 

"  I  shall  want  my  bill  at  the  end  of  the  week,  now 
that  the  boys  are  to  leave,"  remarked  the  little 
hunchback  to  Miss  Ann  as  he  bent  over  her  chair. 
"  Life  is  dreary  enough  as  it  is." 

And  so  the  boys  stayed  on. 

Only  one  room  became  vacant  at  the  end  of  the 
month.  That  was  Mrs.  Schuyler  Van  Tassell's. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  CHANGE  OF  WIND 

The  affair  of  the  brass  band,  with  its  dramatic  and 
most  unlooked-for  ending,  left  an  unpleasant  memory 
in  the  minds  of  the  members  of  the  club,  especially 
in  Oliver's.  His  training  had  been  somewhat  dif 
ferent  from  that  of  the  others  present,  and  his  over 
sensitive  nature  had  been  more  shocked  than  pleased 
by  it  all.  While  most  of  the  other  participants  re 
gretted  the  ill-feeling  which  had  been  aroused  in  Misa 
Teetum's  mind,  they  felt  sure — in  fact,  they  knew — 
that  this  heretofore  kind  and  gentle  hostess  could 
never  have  fanned  her  wrath  to  so  white  a  heat  had 
not  some  other  hand  besides  her  own  worked  the 
bellows. 

Suspicion  first  fell  upon  a  new  boarder  unaccus 
tomed  to  the  ways  of  the  house,  who,  it  was  reported, 
had  double-locked  herself  in  at  the  first  crash  of  the 
drum,  and  who  had  admitted,  on  being  cross-exam 
ined  by  McFudd,  that  she  had  nearly  broken  her 
back  in  trying  to  barricade  her  bedroom  door  with  a 
Saratoga  trunk  and  a  wash-stand.  This  theory  wai 

214 


A  CHANGE  OF  WIND 

abandoned  when  subsequent  inquiries  brought  to 
light  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Van  Tassell,  when  the 
echoes  of  one  of  McFudd's  songs  had  reached  her 
ears,  had  stated  a  week  before  that  no  respectable 
boarding-house  would  tolerate  uproars  like  those 
which  took  place  almost  nightly  on  the  top  floor,  and 
that  she  would  withdraw  her  protection  from  Miss 
Euphemia  and  leave  the  house  at  once  and  forever 
if  the  noise  did  not  cease.  This  dire  threat  being  duly 
reported  to  the  two  Misses  Teetum  had — it  was  after- 
•\»ard  learned — so  affected  them  both  that  Miss  Ann 
had  gone  to  bed  with  a  chill  and  Miss  Sarah  had 
warded  off  another  with  a  bowl  of  hot  camomile  tea. 

This  story,  true  as  it  undoubtedly  was,  did  not 
entirely  clear  up  the  situation.  One  part  of  it  sorely 
puzzled  McFudd.  Why  did  Miss  Euphemia  need 
Mrs.  Van  Tassell's  protection,  and  why  should  the 
loss  of  it  stir  Miss  Ann  to  so  violent  an  outburst? 
This  question  no  member  of  the  Skylarks  could  an 
swer. 

The  solution  came  that  very  night,  and  in  the  most 
unexpected  way,  Waller  bearing  the  glad  tidings. 

Miss  Euphemia,  ignoring  them  all,  was  to  be  mar 
ried  at  St.  Mark's  at  6  P.M.  on  the  following  Monday, 
and  Mrs.  Van  Tassell  was  to  take  charge  of  the  wed 
ding  reception  in  the  front  parlor!  The  groom  was 
the  strange  young  man  who  had  sat  for  some  days 
beside  Miss  Euphemia,  passing  as  Miss  Ann's 

215 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

nephew,  and  who  really  was  a  well-to-do  druggist 
with  a  shop  on  Astor  Place.  All  of  the  regular 
boarders  of  the  house  were  to  be  invited. 

The  explosion  of  this  matrimonial  bomb  so  cleared 
the  air  of  all  doubt  as  to  the  guilt  of  Mrs.  Van  Tassell, 
that  a  secret  meeting,  attended  by  every  member  of 
the  Skylarks,  was  at  once  held  in  Waller's  room  with 
the  result  that  Miss  Ann's  invitations  to  the  wedding 
were  unanimously  accepted.  Not  only  would  the 
resident  members  go — so  the  original  resolution  ran 
• — but  the  non-resident  and  outside  members  would 
also  be  on  hand  to  do  honor  to  Miss  Euphemia  and 
her  distinguished  chaperone.  This  amendment  being 
accepted,  McFudd  announced  in  a  sepulchral  tone 
that,  owing  to  the  severity  of  the  calamity  and  to  the 
peculiarly  painful  circumstances  which  surrounded 
their  esteemed  fellow-skylarker,  the  Honorable  Syl 
vester  Ruffle-shirt  Tomlins,  his  fellow-members 
would  wear  crape  on  their  left  arms  for  thirty  days. 
This  also  was  carried  unanimously,  every  man  except 
Ruffle-shirt  Tomlins  breaking  out  into  the  "  Dead 
Man's  Chorus  " — a  song,  McFudd  explained,  admir 
ably  fitted  to  the  occasion. 

When  the  auspicious  night  arrived,  the  several 
dress-suits  of  the  members  were  duly  laid  out  on  the 
piano  and  hung  over  the  chairs,  and  each  gentleman 
proceeded  to  array  himself  in  costume  befitting  the 
occasion.  Waller,  who  weighed  200  pounds,  squeezed 

216 


himself  into  McFudd's  coat  and  trousers  (McFudd 
weighed  150),  the  trousers  reaching  a  little  below  the 
painter's  knees.  McFudd  wrapped  Waller's  coat 
about  his  thin  girth  and  turned  up  the  bagging  legs 
of  the  unmentionables  six  inches  above  his  shoes. 
The  assorted  costumes  of  the  other  members  were 
equally  grotesque.  The  habiliments  themselves  were 
of  proper  cut  and  make,  according  to  the  standards 
of  the  time — spike-tailed  coats,  white  ties,  patent- 
leather  pumps,  and  the  customary  trimmings,  but 
the  effects  produced  were  as  ludicrous  as  they  were 
incongruous,  though  the  studied  bearing  of  the  gen 
tlemen  was  meant  to  prove  their  unco'nsciousness  of 
the  fact. 

The  astonishment  that  rested  on  Mrs.  Van  Tas- 
eell's  face  when  this  motley  group  filed  into  the  parlor 
and  with  marked  and  punctilious  deference  paid  their 
respects  to  the  bride,  and  the  wrath  that  flashed  in 
Miss  Euphemia's  eyes,  became  ever  after  part  of  the 
traditions  of  the  club.  Despite  Mrs.  Van  Tassell's 
protest  against  the  uproar  on  the  top  floor,  she  had 
invariably  spoken  in  high  terms  to  her  friends  and 
intimates  of  these  very  boarders — their  acquaintance 
was  really  part  of  her  social  capital — commenting  at 
the  same  time  upon  their  exalted  social  and  artistic 
positions.  In  fact,  many  of  her  own  special  guests 
had  attended  the  wedding  solely  in  the  hope  of  being 
brought  into  more  intimate  relations  with  this  dis- 

217 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

languished  group  of  painters,  editors,  and  musicians, 
some  of  whom  were  already  being  talked  about. 

When,  however,  McFudd  stood  in  the  corner  of 
Miss  Teetum's  parlor  like  a  half-scared  boy,  pulling 
out  the  fingers  of  Waller's  kid  gloves,  an  inch  too 
long  for  him,  and  Waller,  Fred,  and  my  Lord  Cock- 
burn  stumbled  over  the  hearth-rug  one  after  the- 
other,  and  Oliver,  feeling  like  a  guilty  man  and  a 
boor,  bowed  and  scraped  like  a  dancing-master;  and 
Bowdoin  the  painter,  and  Simmons  and  Fog-horn 
Cranch,  talked  platitudes  with  faces  as  grave  as  un 
dertakers,  the  expectant  special  guests  invited  by 
Mrs.  Van  Tassell  began  to  look  upon  her  encomi 
ums  as  part  of  an  advertising  scheme  to  fill  Miss 
Teetum's  rooms. 

The  impression  made  upon  the  Teetum  contingent 
by  the  appearance  and  manners  of  the  several  mem 
bers — even  Oliver's  reputation  was  ruined — wag- 
equally  disastrous.  It  was,  perhaps,  best  voiced  by 
the  druggist  groom,  when  he  informed  Mrs.  Van  T» 
from  behind  his  lemon-colored  glove — that  "  if  that 
was  the  gang  he  had  heard  so  much  of,  he  didn't 
want  no  more  of  'em," 

But  these  and  other  jollifications  were  not  long  to 
continue.  Causes  infinitely  more  serious  were  at 
work  undermining  the  foundations  of  the  Skylarks. 
The  Lodge  of  Poverty,  to  which  they  all  belonged^ 
gay  as  it  had  often  been,  was  slowly  closing  its  doorf 

218 


A  CHANGE  OF  WIND 

£he  unexpected,  which  always  hangs  over  life,  was 
about  to  happen;  the  tie  which  bound  these  men  to 
gether  was  slowly  loosening.  Its  members  might 
give  the  grip  of  fellowship  to  other  members  in  other 
lodges  over  the  globe,  but  no  longer  in  this  one  on 
the  top  floor  of  the  house  on  Union  Square. 

One  morning  McFudd  broke  the  seal  of  an  im 
portant-looking  letter  bearing  a  Dublin  post-mark  on 
the  upper  right-hand  corner  of  the  envelope,  and  the 
family  crest  on  its  flap.  For  some  moments  he  sat 
etill,  looking  straight  before  him.  Then  two  tears 
stole  oat  and  glistened  on  his  lashes. 

"  Boys,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  the  governor  says  I 
must  come  home,"  and  he  held  up  a  steamer  ticket 
and  a  draft  that  barely  equalled  his  dues  for  a  month's 
board  and  washing. 

That  night  he  pawned  his  new  white  overcoat  with 
the  bone  buttons  and  velvet  collar — the  one  his  father 
had  sent  him,  and  which  had  been  the  envy  of  every 
man  in  the  club,  and  invested  every  penny  of  the 
proceeds  in  a  supper  to  be  given  to  the  Skylarks. 
The  invitation  ran  as  follows: 

Mr.  Cornelius  McFudd  respectively  requests  the  pleasure 
of  your  presence  at  an  informal  wake  to  be  held  in  honor 
of  a  double-breasted  overcoat,  London  cut.  The  body  and 
tail  will  be  the  ducks,  and  the  two  sleeves  and  velvet  collar 
the  Burgundy. 

Riley's  :  8  P.M.    Third  floor  back. 

219 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

The  following  week  he  packed  his  two  tin  boxes, 
boarded  the  Scotia,  and  sailed  for  home. 

The  keystone  having  dropped  out,  it  was  not  long 
before  the  balance  of  the  structure  came  down  about 
the  ears  of  the  members.  My  Lord  Cockburn  the  fol 
lowing  week  was  ordered  South  by  the  bank  to  look 
after  some  securities  locked  up  in  a  vault  in  a  Georgia 
trust  company,  and  which  required  a  special  mes 
senger  to  recover  them — the  growing  uneasiness  in 
mercantile  circles  over  the  political  outlook  of  the 
country  having  assumed  a  serious  aspect.  Cock' 
burn  had  to  swim  rivers,  he  wrote  Oliver  in  his  first 
letter,  and  cross  mountains  on  horseback,  and  sleep 
in  a  negro  hut,  besides  having  a  variety  of  other  ex 
periences,  to  say  nothing  of  several  hair-breadth 
escapes,  none  of  which  availed  him,  as  he  returned 
home  after  all,  without  the  bonds. 

These  financial  straws,  indicating  the  direction  and 
force  of  the  coming  political  winds,  began  to  accumu 
late.  The  lull  before  the  hurricane — the  stagna 
tion  in  commercial  circles — became  so  ominous  that 
soon  the  outside  members  and  guests  of  the  club 
ceased  coming,  being  diligently  occupied  in  earning 
their  bread,  and  then  Simmons  sent  the  piano  home 
— it  had  been  loaned  to  him  by  reason  of  his  profes 
sion  and  position — and  only  Fog-horn  Cranch,  Wal 
ler,  Fred,  Oliver,  and  Ruffle-shirt  Tomlins  were  left. 

220 


A  CHANGE  OF  WIND 

After  a  while,  "Waller  gave  up  his  room  and  slept  in 
nis  studio  and  got  his  meals  at  the  St.  Clair,  or  went 
without  them,  so  light,  by  reason  of  the  hard  times, 
was  the  demand  for  sheep  pictures  of  Waller's  par 
ticular  make.  And  later  on  Tomlins  went  abroad, 
and  Cranch  moved  West.  And  so  the  ruin  of  the 
club  was  complete;  and  so,  too,  this  merry  band  of 
roysterers,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  passes  out 
of  these  pages. 

Dear  boys  of  the  long  ago,  what  has  become  of  you 
«11  since  those  old  days  in  that  garret-room  on  Union 
Square?  Tomlins,  I  know,  turned  up  in  Australia, 
where  he  married  a  very  rich  and  very  lovely  woman, 
because  he  distinctly  stated  both  of  those  facts  in  an 
exuberant  letter  to  Oliver  when  he  invited  him  to> 
the  wedding.  "  Not  a  bad  journey — only  a  step,  my 
dear  Ollie,  and  we  shall  be  so  delighted  to  see  you." 
I  know  this  to  be  true,  for  Oliver  showed  me  the  let 
ter.  Bowdoin  went  to  Paris,  where,  as  we  all  re 
member,  he  had  a  swell  studio  opening  on  to  a  garden, 
somewhere  near  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  and  had  car 
riages  stop  at  his  door,  and  a  butler  to  open  it,  and 
two  maids  in  white  caps  to  help  the  ladies  off  with 
their  wraps.  Poor  Cranch  died  in  Montana  while 
hunting  for  gold,  and  my  Lord  Cockburn  went  back 
to  London. 

But  does  anybody  know  what  has  become  of 
McFudd — irresistible,  irresponsible,  altogether  de- 

221 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

lightful  McFudd?  that  condensation  of  all  that  was 
joyous,  rollicking,  and  spontaneous;  -that  devotee  of 
the  tub  and  pink  of  neatness,  immaculate,  clean 
shaven  and  well-groomed;  that  soul  of  good-nature, 
which  no  number  of  flowing  bowls  could  disturb  nor 
succeeding  headaches  dull;  that  most  generous  of 
souls,  whose  first  impulse  was  to  cut  squarely  in  half 
everything  he  owned  and  give  you  your  choice  of  the 
pieces,  and  who  never  lost  his  temper  until  you  re 
fused  them  both.  If  you,  my  dear  boy,  are  still  wan 
dering  about  this  earth,  and  your  eye  should  happen 
to  fall  on  these  pages,  remember,  I  send  you  my  greet 
ing.  If  you  have  been  sent  for,  and  have  gone  aloft 
to  cheer  those  others  who  have  gone  before,  and  who 
could  spare  you  no  longer,  speak  a  good  word  for  me, 
please,  and  then,  perhaps,  I  may  shake  your  hand 
again. 

With  the  dissolution  of  the  happy  coterie  there 
came  to  Oliver  many  a  lonely  night  under  the  cheap 
lamp,  the  desolate  hall  outside  looking  all  the  more 
desolate  and  uninviting  with  the  piano  gone  and  the 
lights  extinguished. 

Yet  these  nights  were  not  altogether  distasteful 
to  Oliver.  Fred  had  noticed  for  months  that  his 
room-mate  no  longer  entered  into  the  frolics  of  the 
club  with  the  zest  and  vim  that  characterized  the 
earlier  days  of  the  young  Southerner's  sojourn 

222 


A  CHANGE  OF  WIND 

among  them.  Our  hero  had  said  nothing  while 
the  men  had  held  together,  and  to  all  outward  ap 
pearances  had  done  his  share  not  only  with  his  sing- 
ing,  but  in  any  other  way  in  which  he  could  help 
on  the  merriment.  He  had  covered  the  space  al 
lotted  to  him  on  the  walls  with  caricatures  of  the 
several  boarders  below.  He  had  mixed  the  salad  at 
Riley's  the  night  of  McFudd's  farewell  supper,  with 
his  sleeves  rolled  up  to  the  elbows  and  the  cook's  cap 
on  his  head.  He  had  lined  up  with  the  others  at 
Brown's  on  the  Bowery ;  drank  his  "  crystal  cock 
tails  " — the  mildest  of  beverages — and  had  solemnly 
marched  out  again  with  his  comrades  in  a  lock-step 
like  a  gang  of  convicts.  He  had  indulged  in  forty- 
cent  opera,  leaning  over  the  iron  railing  of  the  top 
row  of  the  Academy  of  Music,  and  had  finished  the 
evening  at  PfafFs,  drinking  beer  and  munching  hard 
tack  and  pickles,  and  had  laughed  and  sung  in  a  dozen 
other  equally  absurd  escapades.  And  yet  it  was  aa 
plain  as  daylight  to  Fred  that  Oliver's  heart  was  no 
longer  centred  in  the  life  about  him. 

The  fact  is,  the  scribe  is  compelled  to  admit,  the 
life  indulged  in  by  these  merry  bohemians  had  begun 
to  pall  upon  this  most  sensitive  of  young  gentlemen. 
It  really  had  not  satisfied  him  at  all.  This  was  not 
the  sort  of  life  that  Mr.  Crocker  meant,  he  had  said 
to  himself  after  a  night  at  Riley's  when  Cranch  had 
sounded  his  horn  so  loud  that  the  proprietor  had 

223 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

threatened  to  turn  the  whole  party  into  the  street. 
Mr.  Crocker's  temperament  was  too  restful  to  be 
interested  in  such  performances.  As  for  himself, 
he  was  tired  of  it. 

Nothing  of  all  this  did  he  keep  from  his  mother. 
The  record  of  his  likes  and  dislikes  which  formed  the 
subject-matter  of  his  daily  letters  was  an  absorbing 
study  with  her,  and  she  let  no  variation  of  the 
weather-vane  of  his  tastes  escape  her.  Nor  did  she 
keep  their  contents  from  her  intimate  friends.  She 
iiad  read  to  Colonel  Clayton  one  of  his  earlier  ones, 
in  which  he  had  told  her  of  the  concerts  and  of  the 
way  Cockburn  had  served  the  brew  that  McFudd  had 
concocted,  and  had  shown  him  an  illustration  Oliver 
had  drawn  on  the  margin  of  the  sheet — an  outline  of 
the  china  mug  that  held  the  mixture — to  which  that 
Chesterfield  of  a  Clayton  had  replied : 

"  "What  did  I  tell  you,  madame — just  what  I  ex 
pected  of  those  Yankees — punch  from  mugs !  Bah !  " 

She  had,  too,  talked  their  contents  over  with 
Amos  Cobb,  who,  since  the  confidence  reposed  in 
him  by  the  Horn  family,  had  become  a  frequent  visi 
tor  at  the  house. 

"  There's  no  harm  come  to  him  yet,  madame,  or 
he  wouldn't  write  you  of  what  he  does.  Boys  will 
be  boys.  Let  him  have  his  fling,"  the  Yermonter  had 
replied  with  a  gleam  of  pleasure  in  his  eye.  "  If  he 
has  the  stuff  in  him  that  I  think  he  has,  he  will  swim 

224 


A  CHANGE  OF  WIND 

out  and  get  to  higher  ground;  if  he  hasn't,  bettei 
let  him  drown  early.  It  will  give  everybody  less 
trouble." 

The  dear  lady  had  lost  no  sleep  over  these  esca 
pades.  She,  too,  realized  that  as  long  as  Oliver 
poured  out  his  heart  unreservedly  4x>  her  there  was 
little  to  fear.  In  her  efforts  to  cheer  him  she  had 
sought,  in  her  almost  daily  letters  lent  him  in  return, 
to  lead  his  thoughts  into  other  "liannels.  She  knew 
how  fond  he  had  always  been  jf  the  society  of  wom 
en,  and  how  necessary  they  were  to  his  happiness, 
and  she  begged  him  to  go  out  more.  "  Surely  there 
must  be  some  young  girls  in  so  great  a  city  who  can 
help  to  make  your  life  happier,"  she  wrote. 

In  accordance  with  her  suggestions,  he  had  at  last 
put  on  his  beat  clothes  and  had  accompanied  Tomlins 
and  Fred  to  some  very  delightful  houses  away  up 
in  Thirty-third  Street,  and  another  on  Washington. 
Square,  and  still  another  near  St.  Mark's  Place,  where 
his  personality  and  his  sweet,  sympathetic  voice  had 
gained  him  friends  and  most  pressing  invitations  to 
call  again.  Some  he  had  accepted,  and  some  he  had 
not — it  depended  very  largely  on  his  mood  and  upon 
the  people  whom  he  met.  If  they  reminded  him  in 
any  way,  either  in  manners  or  appointments,  of  his 
life  at  home,  he  went  again — if  not,  he  generally 
stayed  away. 

Among  these  was  the  house  of  his  employer,  Mr. 
225 


THE  FOKTUKES  OF  OLIVER  HORST 

Slade,  who  had  treated  him  with  marked  kindness, 
not  only  inviting  him  to  his  own  house,  but  introduc 
ing  him  to  many  of  his  friends — an  unusual  civility 
Oliver  discovered  afterward — not  many  of  the  clerks 
being  given  a  seat  at  Mr.  Slade's  table.  "  I  like  his 
brusque,  hearty  manner,"  Oliver  wrote  to  his  mother 
after  the  first  visit.  "  His  wife  is  a  charming  woman, 
and  so  are  the  two  daughters,  quite  independent  and 
fearless,  and  entirely  different  from  the  girls  at  \ 
home,  but  most  interesting  and  so  well  bred." 

Another  incident,  too,  had  greatly  pleased  not  only 
Oliver  and  his  mother,  but  Richard  as  well.  It  hap 
pened  that  a  consignment  of  goods  belonging  to  Mor 
ton,  Slade  &  Co.  was  stored  in  a  warehouse  in  Charles 
ton,  and  it  became  necessary  to  send  one  of  the  clerks 
South  to  reship  or  sell  them,  the  ordinary  business 
methods  being  unsafe,  owing  to  the  continued  rum 
blings  of  the  now  rapidly  approaching  political 
storm — a  storm  that  promised  to  be  infinitely  more 
Serious  than  the  financial  stringency.  The  choice  had 
fallen  on  Oliver,  he  being  a  Southerner,  and  knowing 
the  ways  of  the  people.  He  had  advised  with  his 
mother  and  stood  ready  to  leave  at  an  hour's  notice, 
when  Mr.  Slade's  heart  failed  him. 

"  It's  too  dangerous,  my  lad,"  he  said  to  Oliver. 
"  I  could  trust  you,  I  know,  and  I  believe  you  would 
return  safely  and  bring  the  goods  or  the  money  with 
,  but  I  should  never  forgive  myself  if  anything 
226 


A  CHANGE  OF  WIND 

should  happen  to  you.  I  will  send  an  older  man." 
And  he  did. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Oliver  had  received  Cock- 
burn's  letter  telling  him  of  his  own  experiences,  and 
he,  therefore,  knew  something  of  the  risks  a  man 
would  run,  and  could  appreciate  Mr.  Slade's  action 
all  the  more.  Richard,  as  soon  as  he  heard  of  it,  had 
put  down  his  tools,  left  his  work-bench,  and  had  gone 
into  his  library,  where  he  had  written  the  firm  a 
letter  of  thanks,  couched  in  terms  so  quaint  and 
ccftirtly,  and  so  full  of  generous  appreciation  of  their 
interest  in  Oliver,  that  Mr.  Slade,  equally  appre 
ciative,  had  worn  it  into  ribbons  in  showing  it  to  his 
friends  as  a  model  of  style  and  chirography. 

Remembering  his  mother's  wishes,  and  in  appre 
ciation  of  his  employer's  courtesy,  he  had  kept  up  this 
intimacy  with  the  Slade  family  until  an  unfortunate 
catastrophe  had  occurred,  which  while  it  did  not  af 
fect  his  welcome  at  their  house,  ruined  his  pleasure 
while  there. 

Mr.  Slade  had  invited  Oliver  to  dinner  one  rainy 
night,  and,  being  too  poor  to  pay  for  a  cab,  Oliver, 
in  attempting  to  cross  Broadway,  had  stepped  into  a 
mud-puddle  a  foot  deep.  He  must  either  walk  back 
and  change  his  shoes  and  be  late  for  dinner — an  un 
pardonable  offence — or  he  must  keep  on  and  run  his 
chances  of  cleaning  them  in  the  dressing-room.  There 
was  no  dressing-room  available,  as  it  turned  out,  and 

227 


THE  FOETUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

the  fat  English  butler  had  to  bring  a  wet  cloth  out 
into  the  hall  (oh!  how  he  wished  for  Malachi!)  and 
get  down  on  his  stiff  knees  and  wipe  away  vigor 
ously  before  Oliver  could  present  himself  before  his 
hostess,  the  dinner  in  the  meantime  getting  cold  and 
the  guests  being  kept  waiting.  Oliver  could  never 
look  at  those  shoes  after  that  without  shivering. 

This  incident  had  kept  him  at  home  for  a  time 
and  had  made  him  chary  of  exposing  himself  to  sim 
ilar  mortifications.  His  stock  of  clothes  at  best  was 
limited — especially  his  shoes — and  as  the  weather 
continued  bad  and  the  streets  impassable,  he  preferred 
waiting  for  clearer  skies  and  safer  walking.  So  he 
spent  his  nights  in  his  room,  crooning  over  the  coke 
fire  with  Fred,  or  all  alone  if  Ered  were  at  the  Acad 
emy,  drawing  from  the  cast. 

On  these  nights  he  would  begin  to  long  for  Ken 
nedy  Square.  He  had  said  nothing  yet  about  return 
ing,  even  for  a  day's  visit.  He  knew  how  his  mother 
felt  about  it,  and  he  knew  how  he  had  seen  her 
struggle  to  keep  the  interest  paid  up  on  the  mortgage 
and  to  meet  the  daily  necessities  of  the  house.  The 
motor  was  still  incomplete,  she  wrote  him,  and  suc 
cess  was  as  far  off  as  ever.  The  mortgage  had  again 
been  extended  and  the  note  renewed — this  time  for  a 
longer  term,  owing  to  some  friend's  interest  in  the 
matter  whose  name  she  could  not  learn.  She,  there 
fore,  felt  no  uneasiness  on  that  score,  although  there 

228 


A  CHANGE  OF  WIND 

were  still  no  pennies  which  could  be  spared  for  Oli 
ver's  travelling  expenses,  even  if  he  could  get  leave 
of  absence  from  his  employers. 

At  these  times,  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  garret-room, 
Malachi's  chuckle,  without  cause  or  reminder,  would 
suddenly  ring  in  his  ears,  or  some  low  strain  from 
his  father's  violin  or  a  soft  note  from  Nathan's 
flute  would  float  through  his  brain.  "  Dear  Uncle 
Nat,"  he  would  break  out,  speaking  aloud  and  spring 
ing  from  his  chair — "  I  wish  I  could  hear  you  to 
night." 

His  only  relief  while  in  these  moods  was  to  again 
seize  his  pen  and  pour  out  his  heart  to  his  mother  or 
to  his  father,  or  to  Miss  Clendenning  or  old  Mr. 
Crocker.  Occasionally  he  would  write  to  Sue — not 
often — for  that  volatile  young  lady  had  so  far  forgot 
ten  Oliver  as  to  leave  his  letters  unanswered  for 
weeks  at  a  time.  She  was  singing  "  Dixie,"  she  told 
him  in  her  last  billet-doux,  now  a  month  old,  and  won 
dering  whether  Oliver  was  getting  to  be  a  Yankee, 
and  whether  he  would  be  coming  home  with  a  high 
collar  and  his  hair  cut  short  and  parted  in  the 
middle. 

His  father's  letters  in  return  did  not  lessen  his 
gloom.  "  These  agitators  will  destroy  the  country, 
my  son,  if  they  keep  on,"  Richard  had  written  in  his 
last  letter,  "  It  is  a  sin  against  civilization  to  hold 
your  fellow-men  in  bondage,  and  that  is  why  years 

229 


THE  FOKTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

ago  I  gave  Malachi  and  Hannah  and  the  others  their 
freedom,  but  Virginia  has  unquestionably  the  right 
to  govern  her  internal  affairs  without  consulting 
Massachusetts,  and  that  is  what  many  of  these  North 
ern  leaders  do  not  or  will  not  understand.  I  am 
greatly  disturbed  over  the  situation,  and  I  sincerely 
hope  your  own  career  will  not  be  affected  by  these 
troubles.  As  to  my  own  affairs,  all  I  can  say  is  that 
I  work  early  and  late,  and  am  out  of  debt."  Poor 
fellow!  He  thought  he  was. 

Oliver  was  sitting  thus  one  night,  his  head  in  his 
hands,  elbows  on  his  knees,  gazing  into  the  smoulder 
ing  coals  of  his  grate,  his  favorite  attitude  when  his 
mind  wao  troubled,  when  Fred,  his  face  aglow,  his 
big  blue  eyes  dancing,  threw  wide  the  door  and 
bounded  in,  bringing  in  his  clothes  the  fresh,  cool 
air  of  the  night.  He  had  been  at  work  in  the  School 
of  the  Academy  of  Design,  and  had  a  drawing  in 
chalk  under  his  arm — a  head  of  the  young  Augustus. 

"What's  the  matter,  Ollie,  got  the  blues?" 

"  No,  Freddie,  only  thinking." 

"  What's  her  name?  I'll  go  and  see  her  and  make 
it  up.  Out  with  it — do  I  know  her?  " 

Oliver  smiled  faintly,  examined  the  drawing  for  a 
moment,  and  handing  it  back  to  Fred,  said,  sadly, 
"  It's  not  a  girl,  Freddie,  but  I  don't  seem  to  get  any 
where." 

Fred  threw  the  drawing  on  the  bed  and  squeezed 
230 


A  CHANGE  OF  WIND 

dimself  into  the  chair  beside  his  chum,  his  arm  around 
his  neck. 

"Where  do  you  want  to  get,  old  man?  What's 
the  matter — any  trouble  at  the  store  ?  " 

"  No — none  that  I  know  of.  But  the  life  is  so 
monotonous,  Fred.  You  do  what  you  love  to  do.  I 
mark  boxes  all  day  till  lunch-time,  then  I  roll  them 
out  on  the  sidewalk  and  make  out  dray  tickets  till 
I  come  home.  I've  been  doing  that  all  winter;  I 
expect  to  be  doing  it  for  years.  That  don't  get  me 
Anywhere,  does  it?  I  hate  the  life  more  and  more 
every  day." 

(Was  our  hero's  old  love  of  change  again  assert 
ing  itself,  or  was  it  only  the  pinching  of  that  Chinese 
shoe  which  his  mother  in  her  anxiety  had  slipped  on 
his  unresisting  foot,  and  which  he  was  still  wearing  to 
please  her?  Or  was  it  the  upper  pressure  of  some 
inherent  talent — some  gift  of  his  ancestors  that  would 
not  down  at  his  own  bidding  or  that  of  his  mother 
or  anybody  else's  ?) 

"  Somebody's  got  to  do  it,  Ollie,  and  you  are  the 
last  man  hired,"  remarked  Fred,  quietly.  "  What 
would  you  like  to  do  ? " 

Oliver  shifted  himself  in  the  crowded  chair  until 
he  could  look  into  his  room-mate's  eyes. 

"  Fred,  old  man/'  he  answered,  his  voice  choking, 
"  I  haven't  said  a  word  to  you  about  it  all  the  time 
I've  been  here,  for  I  don't  like  to  talk  about  a  thing 

231 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

that  hurts  me,  and  so  I've  kept  it  to  myself.  Now 
I'll  tell  you  the  truth  just  as  it  is.  I  don't  want  Mr. 
Slade's  work  nor  anybody  else's  work.  I  don't  like 
business  and  never  will.  I  want  to  paint,  and  I'll 
never  be  happy  until  I  do.  That's  it,  fair  and  square." 

"  Well,  quit  Slade,  then,  and  come  with  me." 

"  I  would  if  it  wasn't  for  mother.  I  promised 
her  I  would  see  this  through,  and  I  will."  As  he 
spoke  the  overdue  mortgage  and  his  mother's  efforts 
to  keep  the  interest  paid  passed  in  review  before  him. 

Fred  caught  his  breath.  It  astonished  him,  inde 
pendent  young  Northerner  as  he  was,  to  hear  a  full- 
grown  man  confess  that  his  mother's  apron-strings 
still  held  him  up,  but  he  made  no  comment. 

"  Why  not  try  both?  "  he  cried.  "  There's  a  place 
in  the  school  alongside  of  me — we'll  work  together 
nights.  It  won't  interfere  with  what  you  do  down 
town.  You'll  get  a  good  start,  and  when  you  have 
a  day  off  in  the  summer  you  can  do  some  out-door 
work.  Waller  has  told  me  a  dozen  times  that  you 
draw  better  than  he  did  when  he  commenced.  Come 
along  with  me." 

This  conversation,  with  the  other  incidents  of  the 
day,  or  rather  that  part  of  it  which  had  reference 
to  the  Academy,  was  duly  set  forth  in  his  next  letter 
to  his  mother — not  as  an  argument  to  gain  her  con 
sent  to  his  studying  with  Fred,  for  he  knew  it  was 
the  last  thing  she  would  agree  to — but  because  it  was 

232 


his  habit  to  tell  her  everything.  It  would  show  her, 
too,  how  good  a  fellow  Fred  was  and  what  an  interest 
he  took  in  his  welfare.  Her  answer,  three  days  later, 
sent  him  bounding  upstairs  and  into  their  room  like 
a  whirlwind. 

"Read,  Fred,  read!"  he  cried.  "I  can  go. 
Mother  says  she  thinks  it  would  be  the  best  thing  in 
the  world  for  me.  Here,  clap  your  eyes  on  that — " 
and  Oliver  held  the  letter  out  to  Fred,  his  finger 
pointing  to  this  passage:  "I  wish  you  would  join  Fred 
at  the  Academy.  Now  that  you  have  a  regular  busi 
ness  that  occupies  your  mind,  and  are  earning  your 
living,  I  have  no  objection  to  your  studying  drawing 
or  learning  any  other  accomplishment.  You  work 
hard  all  day,  and  this  will  rest  you." 

The  cramped  foot  was  beginning  to  spread!  The 
Chinese  shoe  had  lost  its  top  button. 


CHAPTER  XH 

AROUND     THE     MILO 

Still  another  new  and  far  more  bewildering  world 
was  opened  to  Oliver  the  night  that  he  entered  the 
cast-room  of  the  School  of  the  National  Academy  of 
Design  and  took  his  seat  among  the  students. 

The  title  of  the  institution,  high-sounding  as  it  was, 
not  only  truthfully  expressed  the  objects  and  pur 
poses  of  its  founders,  but  was  wofully  exact  in  the 
sense  of  its  being  national;  for  outside  the  bare  walls 
of  these  rooms  there  was  hardly  a  student's  easel  to 
b"?  found  the  country  over. 

And  such  forlorn,  desolate  rooms ;  up  two  flights  of 
<?usty  stairs,  in  a  rickety,  dingy  loft  off  Broadway, 
within  a  short  walk  of  Union  Square — an  auction- 
room  on  the  ground  floor  and  a  bar-room  in  the  rear. 
The  largest  of  these  rooms  was  used  for  the  annual 
exhibition  of  the  Academicians  and  their  associates, 
and  the  smaller  ones  were  given  over  to  the  stu 
dents;  one,  a  better  lighted  apartment,  being  filled 
with  the  usual  collection  of  casts—  -Ibv  Milo,  the 
Fighting  Gladiator,  Apollo  Belvider*;  Venws  da 

234 


AKOUND  THE  MILO 

Medici,  etc.,  etc.;  the  other  being  devoted  to  the 
uses  of  the  life-class  and  its  models.  ~Not  the  nude. 
"Whatever  may  have  been  done  in  the  studios,  in  the 
class-room  it  was  always  the  draped  model  that  posed 
• — the  old  woman  who  washed  for  a  living  on  the 
top  floor,  or  one  of  her  chubby  children  or  buxom 
daughters,  or  perhaps  the  peddler  who  strayed  in 
to  sell  his  wares  and  left  his  head  behind  him  on  ten 
different  canvases  and  in  as  many  different  positions. 
The  casts  themselves  were  backed  up  against  the 
walls;  some  facing  the  windows  for  lights  and  darks, 
and  others  pushed  toward  the  middle  of  the  room, 
where  the  glow  of  the  gas-jets  could  accentuate  their 
better  points.  The  Milo,  by  right  of  divinity,  held 
the  centre  position — she  being  beautiful  from  any 
point  of  sight  and  available  from  any  side.  The  The 
seus  and  the  Gladiator  stood  in  the  corners,  affording 
space  for  the  stools  of  two  or  three  students  and  their 
necessary  easels.  Scattered  about  on  the  coarse, 
whitewashed  walls  were  hung  the  smaller  life-casts; 
fragments  of  the  body — an  arm,  leg,  or  hand,  or 
sections  of  a  head — and  tucked  in  between  could  be 
found  cheap  lithographic  productions  of  the  work  of 
the  students  and  professors  of  the  Paris  and  Diissel- 
dorf  schools.  The  gas-lights  under  which  the  stu 
dents  worked  at  night  were  hooded  by  cheap  paper 
shades  of  the  students'  own  fashioning,  and  the  lower 
sashes  of  the  windows  were  smeared  with  whitewash 

235 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

or  covered  with  newspapers  to  concentrate  the  light. 
During  working  hours  the  drawing-boards  were 
propped  upon  rude  easels  or  slanted  on  overturned 
chairs,  the  students  sitting  on  three-legged  stools. 

A  gentle-voiced,  earnest,  whole-souled  old  man — 
the  one  only  instructor — presided  over  this  temple  of 
art.  He  had  devoted  his  whole  life  to  the  sowing  of 
figs  and  the  reaping  of  thistles,  and  in  his  old  age 
was  just  beginning  to  see  the  shoots  of  a  new  art  forc 
ing  their  way  through  the  quickening  clay  of  Amer 
ican  civilization.  Once  in  awhile,  as  assistants  in 
this  almost  hopeless  task,  there  would  stray  into  his 
class-room  some  of  the  painters  who,  unconsciously, 
were  founding  a  national  art  and  in  honor  of  whom 
a  grateful  nation  will  one  day  search  the  world  ove> 
for  marble  white  enough  on  which  to  perpetuate 
their  memories:  men  as  distinct  in  their  aims,  meth 
ods,  and  results  as  was  that  other  group  of  unknown 
and  despised  immortals  starving  together  at  that 
very  time  in  a  French  village  across  the  sea — and 
men,  too,  equally  deserving  of  the  esteem  and  grati 
tude  of  their  countrymen. 

Oliver  knew  the  names  of  these  distinguished  vis 
itors  to  the  Academy,  as  did  all  the  other  members 
of  the  Skylarks,  and  he  knew  their  work.  The  pict 
ures  of  George  Inness.  Sanford  Gifford,  Kensett, 
McEntee,  Hart,  Eastman  Johnson,  Hubbard, 
Church,  Casilaer,  Whittredge,  and  the  others  had 

236 


AROUXD  THE  MILO 

been  frequently  discussed  around  the  piano  on  the 
top  floor  at  Miss  Teetum's,  and  their  merits  and  sup 
posed  demerits  often  hotly  contested.  He  had  met 
Kensett  once  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Slade,  and  McEntee 
had  been  pointed  out  to  him  as  he  left  the  theatre  one 
night,  but  few  of  the  others  had  ever  crossed  his  path. 

Of  the  group  Gifford  appealed  to  him  most.  One 
golden  "  Venice  "  of  the  painter,  which  hung  in  a 
picture-store,  always  delighted  him — a  stretch  of  the 
Lagoon  with  a  cluster  of  butterfly  sails  and  a  far- 
^vay  line  of  palaces,  towers,  and  domes  lying  like 
a  string  of  pearls  on  the  horizon.  There  was  another 
of  Kensett's,  a  point  of  rocks  thrust  out  like  a  mailed 
hand  into  a  blue  sea;  and  a  McEntee  of  October 
woods,  all  brown  and  gold;  but  the  Gifford  he  had 
never  forgotten ;  nor  will  anyone  else  who  has  seen  it. 

No  wonder  then  that  all  his  life  he  remembered 
that  particular  night,  when  a  slender,  dark-haired 
man  in  loose  gray  clothes  sauntered  into  the  class 
room  and  moved  around  among  the  easels,  giving  a 
suggestion  here  and  a  word  of  praise  there,  for  that 
was  the  night  on  which  Professor  Cummings  touched 
our  young  hero's  shoulder  and  said:  "Mr.  Gifford 
likes  your  drawing  very  much,  Mr.  Horn  " — a  word 
of  praise  which,  as  he  wrote  to  Crocker,  steadied  his 
uncertain  fingers  "  as  nothing  else  had  ever  done." 

The  students  in  his  school  were  from  all  stations  in 
life:  young  and  old;  all  of  them  poor,  and  most  of 

237 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIYEE  HORN 

them  struggling  along  in  kindred  professions  and 
occupations  —  engravers,  house-painters,  lithogra 
phers,  and  wood-carvers.  Two  or  three  were  sign- 
painters.  One  of  these — a  big-boned,  blue-eyed 
young  fellow,  who  drew  in  charcoal  from  the  cast 
at  night,  and  who  sketched  the  ships  in  the  harbor 
during  the  day — came  from  Kennedy  Square,  or 
rather  from  one  of  the  side  streets  leading  out  of 
it.  There  can  still  be  found  over  the  door  of  what 
was  once  his  shop  a  weather-beaten  example  of  his- 
skill  in  gold  letters,  the  product  of  his  own  hand. 
Above  the  signature  is,  or  was  some  ten  years  since,. 
a  small  decorative  panel  showing  a  strip  of  yellow 
sand,  a  black  dot  of  a  boat,  and  a  line  of  blue  sky,, 
so  true  in  tone  and  sure  in  composition  that  when 
Mr.  Crocker  first  passed  that  way  and  stood  astounded 
before  it — as  did  Robinson  Crusoe  over  Friday's- 
footprint — he  was  so  overjoyed  to  find  another  artist 
besides  himself  in  the  town,  that  he  turned  into  the 
shop,  and  finding  only  a  young  mechanic  at  work, 
said: 

"  Go  to  New  York,  young  man,  and  study,  you 
have  a  career  before  you." 

The  old  landscape-painter  was  a  sure  prophet;  lit 
tle  pen-and-ink  sketches  bearing  the  initials  of  this 
same  sign-painter  now  sell  for  more  than  their  weight 
in  gold,  while  his  larger  canvases  on  the  walls  of  our 
museums  and  galleries  hold  their  place  beside  the 

238 


AKOUKD  THE  MILO 

work  of  the  marine-painters  of  our  own  and  other 
times  and  will  for  many  a  day  to  come. 

This  exile  from  Kennedy  Square  had  been  the  first 
man  to  shake  Oliver's  hand  the  night  he  entered  the 
cast-room.  Social  distinctions  had  no  place  in  this 
atmosphere;  it  was  the  fellow  who  in  his  work  came 
closest  to  the  curve  of  the  shoulder  or  to  the  poise 
of  the  head  who  proved,  in  the  eyes  of  his  fellow- 
students,  his  possession  of  an  ancestry:  but  the  an 
cestry  was  one  that  skipped  over  the  Mayflower  and 
went  straight  back  to  the  great  Michael  and  Rem 
brandt. 

"  I'm  Jack  Bedford,  the  sign-painter,"  he  said, 
heartily.  "  You  and  I  come  from  the  same  town," 
and  as  they  grasped  each  other's  hands  a  new  friend 
ship  was  added  to  Oliver's  rapidly  increasing  list. 

Oliver's  seat  was  next  to  Fred,  with  Jack  Bedford 
on  his  right.  He  had  asked  to  join  this  group  not 
only  because  he  wanted  to  be  near  his  two  friends 
but  because  he  wanted  still  more  to  be  near  the  Milo. 
He  had  himself  selected  a  certain  angle  of  the  head 
because  he  had  worked  from  that  same  point  of  sight 
with  Mr.  Crocker,  and  it  had  delighted  him  beyond 
measure  when  the  professor  allowed  him  to  place  his 
stool  so  that  he  could  almost  duplicate  his  earlier 
drawing.  His  ambition  was  to  get  into  the  life-class, 
and  the  quickest  road,  he  knew,  lay  through  a  good 
cast  drawing.  Every  night  for  a  week,  therefore, 

239 


THE  FORTUNES  OE  OLIVER  HORN 

lie  had  followed  the  wonderful  lines  of  the  Milo's 
beautiful  body,  which  seemed  to  grow  with  warmth 
under  the  flare  of  the  overhanging  gas-jets. 

These  favored  life  students  occupied  the  room 
next  to  the  casts.  Mother  Mulligan,  in  full  regalia 
of  apron  and  broom,  often  sat  there  as  a  model.  Ol 
iver  had  recognized  her  portrait  at  once ;  so  can  any 
one  else  who  looks  over  the  earlier  studies  of  half  the 
painters  of  the  time. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it —  "  Mrs.  Mulligan  herself  had 
cried  when  she  met  Oliver  in  the  hall,  "  the  young 
gentleman  that  saved  Miss  Margaret's  dog?  She'll 
be  here  next  week  herself — she's  gone  home  for 
awhile  up  into  the  mountains,  where  her  old  father 
and  mother  live.  I  told  her  many  times  about  ye, 
and  she'll  be  that  pleased  to  meet  ye,  now  that  you're 
wan  of  us." 

It  was  delightful  to  hear  her  accent  the  "  wan." 
Mother  Mulligan  always  thought  the  institution 
rested  on  her  broad  shoulders,  and  that  the  students 
were  part  of  her  family. 

The  old  woman  could  also  have  told  Oliver  of  Mar 
garet's  arrival  at  the  school,  and  of  the  impression 
which  she,  the  first  and  only  girl  student,  made  on 
the  night  she  took  her  place  before  an  easel.  But 
of  the  reason  of  her  coming  Mrs.  Mulligan  could 
have  told  nothing,  nor  why  Margaret  had  been  will 
ing  to  exchange  the  comforts  of  a  home  among  the 

240 


ABOUND  THE  MILO 

New  Hampshire  hills  for  the  narrow  confines  of  a 
third-story  back  room,  with  Mrs.  Mulligan  as  house 
keeper  and  chaperon. 

Fred  knew  all  the  details,  of  course,  and  how  it 
had  all  come  about.  How  a  cousin  of  Margaret's 
who  lived  on  a  farm  near  her  father's  had  one  day, 
years  before,  left  his  plough  standing  in  the  furrow 
and  apprenticed  himself  to  a  granite-cutter  in  the 
next  town.  How  later  on  he  had  graduated  in 
gravestones,  and  then  in  bas-reliefs,  and  finally  had 
woti  a  medal  in  Home  for  a  figure  of  "  Hope,"  which 
was  to  mark  the  grave  of  a  millionnaire  at  home. 
How  when  the  statue  was  finished,  ready  to  be  set  up, 
this  cousin  had  come  to  Brookfield,  wearing  a  square- 
cut  beard,  straight-out  mustaches  with  needle-points, 
and  funny  shoes  with  square  toes.  How  the  girl  had 
been  disposed  to  laugh  at  him  until  he  had  told 
her  stories  of  the  wonderful  cities  beyond  the  sea 
and  of  his  life  among  the  painters  and  sculptors; 
then  she  showed  him  her  own  drawings,  searching 
his  face  anxiously  with  her  big  eyes.  How  he  had 
been  so  astounded  and  charmed  by  their  delicacy 
and  truth,  that  he  had  pleaded  with  her  father — an 
obstinate  old  Puritan — to  send  her  to  New  York 
to  study,  which  the  old  man  refused  point-blank  to 
do,  only  giving  his  consent  at  the  last  when  her 
brother  John,  who  had  been  graduated  from  Dart 
mouth  and  knew  something  of  the  outside  world,  had 

241 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

joined  his  voice  to  that  of  her  mother  and  her  own. 
How  when  she  at  last  entered  the  class-room  of  the 
Academy  the  students  had  looked  askance  at  her; 
the  usual  talk  had  ceased,  and  for  a  time  there  had 
been  an  uncomfortable  restraint  everywhere,  until 
the  men  found  her  laughing  quietly  at  their  whis 
pered  jokes  about  her.  After  that  the  "  red-headed 
girl  in  blue  gingham,"  as  she  was  called,  had  become, 
by  virtue  of  that  spirit  of  camaraderie  which  a  com 
mon  pursuit  develops,  "  one  of  us  "  in  spirit  as  well 
as  in  occupation. 

Fred  had  described  it  all  to  Oliver,  and  every  night 
when  Oliver  came  in  from  the  hall,  his  eyes  had 
wandered  over  the  group  of  students  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  the  strange  person.  A  girl  studying  art,  or 
anything  else  for  that  matter,  seemed  to  him  to  be  as 
incongruous  as  for  a  boy  to  learn  dress-making  or 
for  a  woman  to  open  a  barber-shop.  He  knew  her 
type,  he  said  to  himself:  she  would  be  thin  and  awk 
ward,  with  an  aggressive  voice  that  would  jar  on  the 
stillness  of  the  room.  And  she  would  believe  in  the 
doctrines  of  Elizabeth  Cady  Stanton — a  name  never 
mentioned  by  his  mother  except  apologetically  and 
in  a  low  voice — and  when  she  became  older  she  would 
address  meetings  and  become  conspicuous  in  church 
and  have  her  name  printed  in  the  daily  papers. 

Our  hero's  mind  was  intent  upon  these  phases  of 
character  always  to  be  found,  of  course,  in  a  girl  who 

242 


AKOUND  THE  MILO 

would  unsex  herself  to  the  extent  that  Miss  Grant 
had  done,  when  one  night  a  rich,  full,  well-modulated 
voice  sounding  over  his  shoulder  said : 

"  Excuse  me,  but  Mother  Mulligan  tells  me  that 
you  are  Mr.  Horn,  Fred  Stone's  friend.  I  want  to 
thank  you  for  taking  care  of  my  poor  Juno.  It  was 
.very  good  of  you.  I  am  Margaret  Grant." 

She  had  approached  him  without  his  seeing  her. 
He  turned  quickly  to  accost  her  and  immediately  lost 
so  much  of  his  breath  that  he  could  only  stammer  his 
thamks,  and  the  hope  that  Juno  still  enjoyed  the  best 
of  health.  But  the  deep-brown  eyes  did  not  waver 
after  acknowledging  his  reply,  nor  did  the  smile- 
about  the  mouth  relax. 

"  And  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  at  last,"  she  went 
on.  "  Fred  has  told  me  how  you  wanted  to  draw 
and  couldn't.  I  know  something  myself  of  what  it 
is  to  hunger  after  a  thing  and  not  get  it." 

He  was  on  his  feet  now,  the  bit  of  charcoal  still 
between  his  fingers,  his  shirt-cuff  rolled  back  to  give 
his  hand  more  freedom.  His  senses  were  coming 
back,  too,  and  there  was  buoyancy  as  well  as  youth 
in  his  face. 

"  Yes,  I  do  love  it,"  said  Oliver,  and  his  eyes 
wandered  over  her  wonderful  hair  that  looked  like 
brown  gold  illumined  by  slants  of  sunshine,  and 
then  rested  for  an  instant  on  her  eyes.  "  I  drew 
with  old  Mr.  Crocker  at  home,  but  we  only  had  one 

243 


THE  FOKTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

cast,  just  the  head  of  the  Milo,  and  I  was  the  only 
pupil.  Here  everything  helps  me.  What  are  you 
at  work  on,  Miss  Grant?  " 

"  I'm  doing  the  Milo,  too ;  my  seat  is  right  in 
front  of  yours.  Oh!  what  a  good  beginning,"  and 
she  bent  over  his  drawing-board.  "  Why,  this  can't 
be  your  first  week,"  and  she  scanned  it  closely. 
"  One  minute — a  little  too  full  under  the  chin,  isn't 
it?"  She  picked  up  a  piece  of  chalk,  and  pointed 
to  the  shaded  lines,  looking  first  with  half -closed  eyes 
at  the  full-sized  cast  before  them,  and  then  at  the 
drawing. 

"  Yes,  I  think  you're  right,"  said  Oliver,  studying 
the  cast  also  with  half-closed  eyes.  "  How  will  that 
do  ?  "  and  he  smudged  the  shadow  with  his  finger-tip. 

"  Just  right,"  she  answered.  "  How  well  you  have 
the  character  of  the  face.  Isn't  she  lovely ! — I  know 
of  nothing  so  beautiful.  There  is  such  a  queenly, 
womanly,  self -poised  simplicity  about  her." 

Oliver  thought  so  too,  and  said  so  with  his  eyes, 
only  it  was  of  a  face  framed  in  brown-gold  that  he 
was  thinking  and  not  of  one  of  white  plaster.  He 
was  touched  too  by  the  delicate  way  in  which  she  had 
commended  his  drawings.  It  was  the  "  woman  "  in 
her  that  pleased  him,  just  as  it  had  been  in  Sue — that 
subtle,  dominating  influence  which  our  fine  gentle 
man  could  never  resist. 

He  shifted  his  stool  a  little  to  one  side  so  that  he 
244 


ABOUND  THE  MILO 

could  see  her  the  better  unobserved  while  she  was  ar 
ranging  her  seat  and  propping  up  her  board.  He 
noticed  that,  although  her  face  was  tanned  by  the 
weather,  her  head  was  set  on  a  neck  of  singular  white 
ness.  Underneath,  where  the  back  hair  was  tucked 
up,  his  eye  caught  some  delicate  filmy  curls  which 
softened  the  line  between  her  throat  and  head  and 
shone  in  the  light  like  threads  of  gold.  The  shoul 
ders  sloped  and  the  whole  fulness  of  her  figure  ta 
pered  to  a  waist  firmly  held  by  a  leather  belt.  A 
wholesome  girl,  he  thought  to  himself,  and  good  to 
look  at,  and  with  a  certain  rhythmic  grace  about  her 
movements. 

Her  crowning  glory,  though,  was  her  hair,  which 
was  parted  over  her  forehead  and  caught  in  a  simple 
twist  behind.  As  the  light  fell  upon  it  he  observed 
again  how  full  it  was  of  varying  tones  like  those 
found  in  the  crinklings  of  a  satin  gown — yellow-gold 
one  minute  and  dark  brown  the  next.  Oliver  won 
dered  how  long  this  marvellous  hair  might  be,  and 
whether  it  would  reach  to  the  floor  if  it  should  burst 
its  fastenings  and  whether  Sir  Peter  Lely  would  have 
loved  it  too  could  he  have  seen  this  flood  of  gold  bath 
ing  her  brow  and  shoulders. 

He  found  it  delightful  to  work  within  a  few  feet 
of  her,  silent  as  they  had  to  be,  for  much  talking 
was  discountenanced  by  the  professor:  often  hours 
passed  without  any  sound  being  heard  in  the  room 

245 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

but  that  of  the  scraping  of  the  chairs  on  the  bare  floor 
or  the  shifting  of  an  easel. 

Two  or  three  times  during  the  evening  the  old  pro 
fessor  emerged  from  his  room  and  overlooked  his 
drawing,  patiently  pointing  out  the  defects  and 
as  patiently  correcting  them.  He  was  evidently 
impressed  with  Oliver's  progress,  for  he  remarked 
to  Miss  Grant,  in  a  low  voice: 

"  The  new  student  draws  well — he  is  doing  first- 
rate,"  and  passed  on.  Oliver  caught  the  expression 
of  satisfaction  on  the  professor's  face  and  inter 
preted  it  as  in  some  way  applying  to  his  work,  al 
though  he  did  not  catch  the  words. 

The  old  man  rarely  had  to  criticise  Margaret's 
work.  The  suggestions  made  to  her  came  oftener 
from  the  students  than  from  the  professor  himself 
or  any  one  of  the  visiting  critics.  In  these  criticisms, 
not  only  of  her  own  work  but  of  the  others,  every 
one  took  part,  each  leaving  his  stool  and  helping  in 
the  discussion,  when  the  work  of  the  night  was  over. 
Fred's  more  correct  eye,  for  instance,  would  be  in 
valuable  to  Jack  Bedford,  the  ex-sign-painter,  who 
was  struggling  with  the  profile  of  the  Gladiator;  or 
Margaret,  who  could  detect  at  a  glance  the  faintest 
departure  from  the  lines  of  the  original,  would 
shorten  a  curve  on  Oliver's  drawing,  or  he  in  turn 
would  advise  her  about  the  depth  of  a  shadow  or  the 
spot  for  a  high  light. 

246 


AROTJKD  THE  MILO 

As  the  nights  went  by  and  Oliver  studied  her 
the  closer,  the  Xew  England  girl  became  all  the  more 
inexplicable  to  him.  She  was,  he  could  not  but  ad 
mit,  like  no  other  woman  he  had  ever  met;  certainly 
not  in  his  present  surroundings.  She  really  seemed 
;  to  belong  to  some  fabled  race — one  of  the  Amazons, 
or  Rhine  maidens,  or  Norse  queens  for  whom 
knights  couched  their  lances.  It  was  useless  to  com 
pare  her  to  any  one  of  the  girls  about  Kennedy 
Square,  for  she  had  nothing  in  common  with  any  one 
ol  them.  Was  it  because  she  was  unhappy  among 
her  own  people  that  she  had  thus  exiled  herself  from 
her  home,  or  had  some  love-affair  blighted  her  life? 
Or  could  it  be,  as  Fred  had  suggested,  that  she  was 
willing  to  undergo  all  these  discomforts  and  priva 
tions  simply  for  love  of  her  art?  As  this  possible 
solution  of  the  vexing  problem  became  established 
in  his  mind,  with  the  vision  of  Margaret  herself  be 
fore  him,  the  blood  mounted  to  his  cheeks  and  an  un 
controllable  thrill  of  enthusiasm  swept  over  him. 
He  could  forgive  her  anything  if  this  last  motive  had 
really  controlled  and  shaped  her  life. 

Had  he  seen  the  more  closely  and  with  prophetio 
vision,  he  would  have  discerned,  in  this  Norse  queen 
with  the  golden  hair,  the  mother  of  a  long  line  of 
daughters,  who,  in  the  days  to  follow,  would  hang 
their  triumphant  shields  beside  those  of  their 
brothers,  winning  equal  recognition  in  salon  and  gal- 

247 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

lery  and  conferring  equal  honor  on  their  country. 
But  Oliver's  vision  was  no  keener  than  that  of  any 
one  else  about  him.  It  was  only  the  turn  of  Mar 
garet's  head  that  caught  the  young  student's  eye  and 
the  wealth  of  her  brown-gold  hair.  With  the  future 
he  had  no  concern. 

What  attracted  him  most  of  all  in  this  woman  who 
had  violated  all  the  known  traditions  of  Kennedy 
Square,  was  a  certain  fearlessness  of  manner — an  in 
dependence,  a  perfect  ingenuousness,  and  a  freedom 
from  any  desire  to  interest  the  students  in  herself. 
When  she  looked  at  any  one  of  them,  it  was  never 
from  under  drooping  eyelids,  as  Sue  would  have  done, 
nor  with  that  coquettish,  alluring  glance  to  which  he 
had  always  been  accustomed.  She  looked  straight  at 
them  with  unflinching  eyes  that  said,  "  I  can  trust 
you,  and  will."  He  had  never  seen  exactly  that 
look  except  in  the  portrait  of  his  uncle's  grandmother 
Ay  Sir  Peter  Lely — the  picture  he  had  always  loved. 
Strange  to  say,  too,  the  eyes  of  the  portrait  were 
Margaret's  eyes,  and  so  was  the  color  of  the  hair. 

No  vexed  problems  entered  Margaret's  head  re 
garding  the  very  engaging  young  gentleman  who  sat 
*>ehind  her  stool.  He  merely  represented  to  her  an 
other  student — that  was  all;  the  little  band  was 
"Small  enough,  and  she  was  glad  to  see  the  new  ones 
come.  She  noticed,  it  is  true,  certain  unmistakable 
differences — a  peculiar,  soft  cadence  in  his  voice  as 

248 


AKOTJXD  THE  MlLO 

the  words  slipped  from  his  lips  without  their  final  g's; 
a  certain  deference  to  herself — standing  until  she 
regained  her  seat,  an  attention  which  she  attributed 
at  first  to  embarrassment  over  his  new  surroundings 
and  to  his  desire  to  please.  She  noticed,  too,  a  cer 
tain  grace  in  his  movements — a  grace  that  attracted 
her,  especially  in  the  way  with  which  he  used  hig 
hands,  and  in  the  way  in  which  he  threw  his  head 
up  when  he  laughed;  but  even  these  differences 
ceased  to  interest  her  after  the  first  night  of  their 
meeting. 

But  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  he  came  from  any 
different  stock  than  the  others  about  her,  or  that  his 
blood  might  or  might  not  be  a  shade  bluer  than  her 
own.  What  had  really  impressed  her  more  than  any 
thing  else — ap-d  this  only  flashed  into  her  mind  while 
she  was  looking  in  the  glass  one  night  at  her  own — 
were  his  big  white  teeth,  white  as  grains  of  corn,  and 
the  cleanliness  of  his  hands  and  nails.  She  liked 
these  things  about  him.  Some  of  the  fingers  that 
rested  on  her  drawing-board  were  often  more  like 
clothes-pins  than  fingers,  and  shocked  her  not  a  little; 
some,  too,  were  stained  with  acids,  and  one  or  more 
with  printer's  ink  that  no  soap  could  remove. 

Before  the  evening  was  over  Oliver  became  one 
of  the  class-room  appointments — a  young  man  who 
sat  one  stool  behind  her  and  was  doing  fairly  well 
•with  his  first  attempt,  and  who  would  some  day  be 

249 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

able  to  make  a  creditable  drawing  if  he  had  patience 
and  application. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  second  week  a  new  student 
appeared — or  rather  an  old  one,  who  had  been  laid 
lip  at  home  with  a  cold.  When  Oliver  arrived  he 
found  him  in  Margaret's  seat,  his  easel  standing 
where  hers  had  been.  He  had  a  full-length  drawing 
of  the  Milo — evidently  the  work  of  days — nearly 
finished  on  his  board.  Oliver  was  himself  a  little 
ahead  of  time — ahead  of  either  Margaret  or  Fred, 
and  had  noticed  the  new-comer  when  he  entered,  the 
room  being  nearly  empty.  Jack  Bedford  was  already 
at  work. 

"  Horn,"  Jack  cried,  and  beckoned  to  Oliver — 
"  see  the  beggar  in  Miss  Grant's  seat.  Won't  there 
be  a  jolly  row  when  she  comes  in  ?  " 

Margaret  entered  a  moment  later,  her  portfolio 
under  her  arm,  and  stood  taking  in  the  situation. 
Then  she  walked  straight  to  her  former  seat,  and  said, 
in  a  firm  but  kindly  tone : 

"  This  is  my  place,  sir.  I've  been  at  work  here  for 
a  week.  You  see  my  drawing  is  nearly  done." 

The  young  man  looked  up.  He  toiled  all  day  in 
a  lithographer's  shop,  and  these  precious  nights  in 
the  loft  were  his  only  glimpses  of  happiness.  He  sat 
without  his  coat,  his  shirt-sleeves  liberally  smeared 
with  the  color-stains  of  his  trade. 

"  Well,  it's  my  place,  too.    I  sat  here  a  week  bfe< 
250 


AROUND  THE  MILO 

fore  I  was  taken  sick,"  he  said,  in  a  slightly  indig 
nant  tone,  looking  into  Margaret's  face  in  astonish 
ment. 

"  But  if  you  did,"  continued  Margaret,  "  you  see 
I  am  nearly  through.    I  can't  take  another  seat,  for 
I'll  lose  the  angle.    I  can  finish  in  an  hour  if  you  will| 
please  give  me  this  place  to-night.     You  can  work 
just  as  well  by  sitting  a  few  feet  farther  along." 

The  lithographer,  without  replying,  turned  from 
her  impatiently,  bent  over  his  easel,  picked  up  a  fresh 
bit  of  charcoal  and  corrected  a  line  on  the  Milo's 
shoulder.  So  far  as  he  was  concerned  the  argument 
was  closed. 

Margaret  stood  patiently.  She  thought  at  first  he 
was  merely  adding  a  last  touch  to  his  drawing  before 
granting  her  request. 

"  Will  you  let  me  have  the  seat? "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  blurted  out.  He  was  still  bending  over 
his  drawing,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  work.  He  did  not 
even  look  up.  "  I'm  going  to  stay  here  until  I  finish. 
You  know  the  rules  as  well  as  I  do.  I  wouldn't  take 
your  seat — what  do  you  want  to  take  mine  for?" 
There  was  no  animosity  in  his  voice.  He  spoke  as  if 
announcing  a  fact. 

The  words  had  hardly  left  his  lips  when  there 
came  the  sound  of  a  chair  being  quickly  pushed 
back,  and  Oliver  stood  beside  Margaret.  His  eyes 
were  flashing;  his  right  shirt-cuff  was  rolled  back, 

251 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

the  bit  of  charcoal  still  between  his  fingers.  Every 
muscle  of  his  body  was  tense  with  anger.  Margaret's 
quick  instinct  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  She 
saw  Oliver's  wrath  and  she  knew  its  cause. 

"Don't,  Mr.  Horn,  please—  please!  "  she  cried, 
putting  up  her  hand.  "  I'll  begin  another  drawing. 
I  see  now  that  I  took  his  seat  when  he  was  away,  al 
though  I  didn't  know  it." 

Oliver  stepped  past  her.  "  Get  up,  sir,"  he  said, 
"  and  give  Miss  Grant  her  seat.  What  do  you  mean 
by  speaking  so  to  a  lady? " 

The  apprentice — his  name  was  Judson — raised 
his  eyes  quickly,  took  in  Oliver's  tense,  muscular  fig 
ure  standing  over  him,  and  said,  with  a  contemptuous 
wave  of  the  hand: 

"  Young  feller — you  go  and  cool  off  somewhere, 
or  I'll  tell  the  professor.  It's  none  of  your  business. 
I  know  the  rules  and " 

He  never  finished  the  sentence — not  that  anybody 
heard.  He  was  floundering  on  the  floor,  an  over 
turned  easel  and  drawing-board  lying  across  his 
body;  Oliver  standing  over  him  with  his  fists  tightly 
clenched. 

"  I'll  teach  you  how  to  behave  to  a  lady."  The 
words  sounded  as  if  they  came  from  between  closed 
teeth.  "  Here's  your  chair,  Miss  Grant,"  and  with 
a  slight  bow  he  placed  the  chair  before  her  and 
resumed  his  seat  with  as  much  composure  as  if  he 

252 


AROUXD  THE  MILO 

had  been  in  his  mother's  drawing-room  in  Kennedy 
Square. 

Margaret  was  so  astounded  that  for  a  moment 
she  could  not  speak.  Then  her  voice  came  back  to 
her.  "  I  don't  want  it,"  she  cried,  in  a  half-fright 
ened  way,  the  tears  starting  in  her  eyes.  "  It  was 
never  mine — I  told  you  so.  Oh,  what  have  you 
done?" 

Never  since  the  founding  of  the  school  had  there 
been  such  a  scene.  The  students  jumped  from  their 
chairs  and  crowded  about  the  group.  The  life  class, 
which  were  at  work  in  another  room,  startled  by  the 
uproar,  swarmed  out  eager  to  know  what  had  hap 
pened  and  why — and  who — and  what  for.  Old 
Mother  Mulligan,  who  had  been  posing  for  the  class, 
with  a  cloak  about  her  fat  shoulders  and  a  red  hand 
kerchief  binding  up  her  head,  rushed  over  to  Mar 
garet,  thinking  she  had  been  hurt  in  some  way,  until 
she  saw  the  student  on  the  floor,  still  panting  and 
half-dazed  from  the  effect  of  Oliver's  blow.  Then 
she  fell  on  her  knees  beside  him. 

At  this  instant  Professor  Cummings  entered,  and 
a  sudden  hush  fell  upon  the  room.  Judson,  with  the 
help  of  Mother  Mulligan's  arm,  had  picked  himself 
up,  and  would  have  made  a  rush  at  Oliver  had  not  big 
Jack  Bedford  stopped  him. 

"  Who's  to  blame  for  this? "  asked  the  professor, 
looking  Irom  out  t(  ih?  «ther. 

255 


THE  .FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Oliver  rose  from  his  seat. 

"  This  man  insulted  Miss  Grant  and  I  threw  him 
out  of  her  chair,"  he  answered  quietly. 

"  Insulted  you!  "  cried  the  professor,  in  surprise, 
and  he  turned  to  Margaret.  "  "What  did  he  say?  " 

"  I  never  said  a  word  to  her,"  whined  Judson, 
straightening  his  collar.  "  I  told  her  the  seat  was 
mine,  and  so  it  is.  That  wasn't  insulting  her." 

"  It's  all  a  mistake,  professor — Mr.  Horn  did  not 
understand,"  protested  Margaret.  "  It  was  his  seat, 
not  mine.  He  began  his  drawing  first.  I  didn't  know 
it  when  I  commenced  mine.  I  told  Mr.  Horn  so." 

"  "Why  did  you  strike  him?  "  asked  the  professor, 
and  he  turned  and  faced  Oliver. 

"  Because  he  had  no  business  to  speak  to  her  as 
he  did,  She  is  the  only  lady  we  have  among  us  and 
every  man  in  the  class  ought  to  remember  it,  and 
every  man  has  since  I've  been  here  except  this  one." 

There  was  a  slight  murmur  of  applause.  Judson's 
early  training  had  been  neglected  as  far  as  his  man 
ners  went,  and  he  was  not  popular. 

The  professor  looked  searchingly  into  Oliver's  eyes 
and  a  flush  of  pride  in  the  boy's  pluck  tinged  his  pale 
cheeks.  He  had  once  thrown  a  fellow-student  out 
of  a  window  in  Munich  himself  for  a  similar  offence, 
and  old  as  he  was  he  had  never  forgotten  it. 

"  You  come  from  the  South,  Mr.  Horn,  I  hear," 
H<  «*dd  in  a  gentler  voice,  "  and  you  are  all  a  hot" 

254 


AROUXD  THE  MILO 

tempered  race,  and  often  do  foolish  things.  Judsoi} 
meant  no  harm — he  says  so,  and  Miss  Grant  says  so. 
Kow  you  two  shake  hands  and  make  up.  We  are 
trying  to  learn  to  draw  here,  not  to  batter  each 
other's  heads." 

Oliver's  eyes  roved  from  one  to  the  other;  he  was 
too  astonished  to  make  further  reply.  He  had  only 
done  what  he  knew  every  other  man  around  Kennedy 
Square  would  have  done  under  similar  circumstances, 
and  what  any  other  woman  would  have  thanked  him 
fo*.  Why  was  everybody  here  against  him — even 
the  girl  herself!  What  sort  of  people  were  these  who 
would  stand  by  and  see  a  woman  insulted  and  make 
no  defence  or  outcry?  He  could  not  have  looked  his 
father  in  the  face  again,  nor  Sue,  nor  anyone  else 
in  Kennedy  Square,  if  he  had  failed  to  protect 
her. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  his  eyes  searching  each 
face.  He  had  hoped  that  someone  who  had  witnessed 
the  outrage  would  come  forward  and  uphold  his  act. 
When  no  voice  broke  the  stillness  he  crossed  the 
room  and  taking  the  lithographer's  hand,  extended 
rather  sullenly,  answered,  quietly:  "If  Miss  Grant 
is  satisfied,  I  am,"  and  peace  was  once  more  restored. 

Margaret  sharpened  her  charcoals  and  bent  over 
her  drawing.  She  was  so  agitated  she  could  not  trust 
herself  to  touch  its  surface.  "  If  I  am  satisfied"  she 
kept  repeating  to  herself.  The  words,  somehow, 

255 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

seemed  to  carry  a  reproach,  with  them.  "  Why 
shouldn't  I  be  satisfied?  I  have  no  more  rights  in 
the  room  than  the  other  students  about  me;  that  is, 
I  thought  I  hadn't  until  I  heard  what  he  said.  How 
foolish  for  him  to  cause  all  this  fuss  about  nothing, 
and  make  me  so  conspicuous." 

)  But  even  as  she  said  the  words  to  herself  she  re 
membered  Oliver's  tense  figure  and  the  look  of  in 
dignation  on  his  face.  She  had  never  been  accus 
tomed  to  seeing  men  take  up  the  cudgels  for  women. 
There  had  been  no  opportunity,  perhaps,  nor  cause, 
but  even  if  there  had  been,  she  could  think  of  no  one 
whom  she  had  ever  met  who  would  have  done  as 
much  for  her  just  because  she  was  a  woman. 

A  little  sob,  which  she  could  not  have  explained 
to  herself,  welled  up  to  her  throat.  Much  as  she 
gloried  in  her  own  self-reliance,  she  suddenly  and 
unexpectedly  found  herself  exulting  in  a  quality 
heretofore  unknown  to  her — that  quality  which  had 
compelled  an  almost  total  stranger  to  take  her  part. 
Then  the  man  himself!  How  straight  and  strong 
and  handsome  he  was  as  he  stood  looking  at  Jud- 
son,  and  then  the  uplifted  arm,  the  quick  spring,  and, 
best  of  all,  the  calm,  graceful  way  in  which  he  had 
handed  her  the  chair!  She  could  not  get  the  pict 
ure  out  of  her  mind.  Last,  she  remembered  with 
a  keen  sense  of  pleasure  the  chivalrous  look  in  his 
face  when  he  held  out  his  hand  to  the  man  who  a 

256 


AROUXD  THE  MILO 

moment  before  had  received  its  full  weight  about 
his  throat. 

She  had  not  regained  mastery  of  herself  even  when 
she  leaned  across  her  drawing-board,  pretending  to 
be  absorbed  in  her  work.  The  curves  of  the  Milo 
seemed  in  some  strange  way  to  have  melted  into  the 
semblance  of  the  outlines  of  other  visions  sunk  deep 
in  her  soul  since  the  days  of  her  childhood — visions 
which  for  years  past  had  been  covered  over  by  the 
ice  of  a  cold,  hard  puritanical  training,  that  had  pre- 
*  vented  any  bubbles  of  sentiment  from  ever  rising  to 
the  surface  of  her  heart.  As  remembrances  of  these 
visions  rushed  through  her  mind  the  half-draped 
woman,  with  the  face  of  the  Madonna  and  the  soul 
of  the  Universal  Mother  shining  through  every  line 
of  her  beautiful  body,  no  longer  stood  before  her. 
It  was  a  knight  in  glittering  armor  now,  with  drawn 
sword  and  visor  up,  beneath  which  looked  out  the 
face  of  a  beautiful  youth  aflame  with  the  fire  of  a 
holy  zeal.  She  caught  the  flash  of  the  sun  on  his 
breastplate  of  silver,  and  the  sweep  of  his  blade,  and 
heard  his  clarion  voice  sing  out.  And  then  again, 
as  she  closed  her  eyes,  this  calm,  lifeless  cast  became 
a  gallant,  blue-eyed  prince,  who  knelt  beside  her  and 
kissed  her  finger-tips,  his  doffed  plumes  trailing  at 
her  feet. 

When  the  band  of  students  were  leaving  the  rooms 
that  night,  Margaret  called  Oliver  to  her  side,  and  ex- 

257 


THE  FOKTUNES  OF  OLIVES  IIOEN" 

tending  her  hand,  said,  with  a  direct  simplicity  that 
carried  conviction  in  every  tone  of  her  voice  and  in 
which  no  trace  of  her  former  emotions  were  visible : 

"  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me,  Mr.  Horn.  I'm  all 
alone  here  in  this  city  and  I  have  grown  so  accus 
tomed  to  depending  on  myself  that,  perhaps,  I  failed 
to  understand  how  you  felt  about  it.  I  am  very 
grateful  to  you.  Good-night." 

She  had  turned  away  before  he  could  do  more  than 
express  his  regret  over  the  occurrence.  He  wanted 
to  follow  her;  to  render  her  some  assistance;  to 
comfort  her  in  some  way.  It  hurt  him  to  see  her  go 
out  alone  into  the  night.  He  wished  he  might  offer 
his  arm,  escort  her  home,  make  some  atonement  for 
the  pain  he  had  caused  her.  But  there  was  a  certain 
proud  poise  of  the  head  and  swift  glance  of  the  eye 
which  held  him  back. 

While  he  stood  undecided  whether  to  break 
through  her  reserve  and  join  her,  he  saw  Mrs.  Mul 
ligan  come  out  of  the  basement,  stop  a  passing  stage, 
and,  helping  Margaret  in,  take  the  seat  beside  her. 

"  I  am  glad  she  does  not  go  out  alone,"  he  said  to 
and  turned  away. 


CHAPTER 

BELOW    MOOSE    HILLOCK 

It  was  not  long  before  the  bare  rooms  of  the 
Academy  School — owing  to  the  political  situation, 
which  necessitated  the  exercise  of  economies  in 
every  direction — began  to  suffer. 

One  night  the  students  found  the  gas  turned  out 
and  a  small  card  tacked  on  the  door  of  the  outer  hall. 
It  read — 


SCHOOL  CLOSED   FOB   WANT  OF 

FUNDS.     WILL  PERHAPS  BE 

OPENED  IN  THE  AUTUMN. 


Signs  of  like  character  were  not  unusual  in  the  his 
tory  of  the  school.  The  wonder  was,  considering  the 
vicissitudes  through  which  the  Academy  had  passed, 
that  it  was  opened  at  all.  From  the  institution's  ear 
lier  beginnings  in  the  old  house  on  Bond  Street,  to 
its  flight  from  the  loft  close  to  Grace  Church  and 
then  to  the  abandoned  building  opposite  the  old  hotel 
near  "Washington  Square,  where  Amos  Cobb  always 

259 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

stayed  when  he  came  to  New  York,  and  so  on  down 
to  its  own  home  on  Broadway,  its  history  had  been 
one  long  straggle  for  recognition  and  support. 

This  announcement,  bitter  enough  as  it  was  to 
Oliver,  was  followed  by  another  even  more  startling, 
when  he  reached  the  office  next  day,  and  Mr.  Slade 
called  him  into  his  private  room. 

"  Mr.  Horn,"  said  his  employer,  motioning  Oliver 
to  a  seat  and  drawing  his  chair  close  beside  him  so 
that  he  could  lay  his  hand  upon  the  young  man's 
knee,  "  I  am  very  sorry  to  tell  you  that  after  the  first 
of  June  we  shall  be  obliged  to  lay  you  off.  It  is  not 
because  we  are  dissatisfied  with  your  services,  for  you 
have  been  a  faithful  clerk,  and  we  all  like  you  and 
wish  you  could  stay,  but  the  fact  is  if  this  repudi 
ation  goes  on  we  will  all  be  ruined.  I  am  not  going 
to  discharge  you;  I'm  only  going  to  give  you  a  holi 
day  for  a  few  months.  Then,  if  the  war-scare  blows 
over  we  want  you  back  again.  I  appreciate  that  this 
has  come  as  suddenly  upon  you  as  it  has  upon  us,  and 
I  hope  you  will  not  feel  offended  when,  in  addition 
to  your  salary,  I  hand  you  the  firm's  check  for  an 
extra  amount.  You  must  not  look  upon  it  as  a  gift, 
for  you  have  earned  every  cent  of  it." 

These  two  calamities  were  duly  reported  in  a  ten- 
page  letter  to  his  mother  by  our  young  hero,  sitting 
alone,  as  he  wrote,  up  in  his  sky-parlor,  crooning  over 
his  dismal  coke  fire.  "  Was  he,  then,  to-  begin  over 

260 


BELOW  MOOSE  HILLOCK 

again  the  weary  tramping  of  the  streets?  "  he  said  to 
himself.  "  And  the  future !  What  did  that  hold  in 
store  for  him?  Would  the  time  ever  come  when  he 
could  follow  the  bent  of  his  tastes?  He  was  getting 
on  so  well — even  Miss  Grant  had  said  so — and  it  had 
not  interfered  with  his  work  at  the  store,  either.  The 
check  in  his  pocket  proved  that." 

His  mother's  answer  made  his  heart  bound  with 

i°y- 

"  Take  Mr.  Slade  at  his  word.  He  is  your  friend 
and  means  what  he  says.  Find  a  place  for  the  summer 
where  you  can  live  cheaply  and  where  the  little 
money  which  you  now  have  will  pay  your  way.  In 
the  fall  you  can  return  to  your  work.  Don't  think  of 
coming  home,  much  as  I  should  like  to  put  my  arms 
around  you.  I  cannot  spare  the  money  to  bring  you 
here  now,  as  I  have  just  paid  the  interest  on  the  mort 
gage.  Moreover,  the  whole  of  Kennedy  Square  is 
upset  and  our  house  seems  to  be  the  centre  of  disturb 
ance.  Your  father's  views  on  slavery  are  well 
known,  and  he  is  already  being  looked  upon  with  dis 
favor  by  some  of  our  neighbors.  At  the  club  the 
other  night  he  and  Judge  Bowman  had  some  words 
which  were  very  distressing  to  me.  Mr.  Cobb  was 
present,  and  was  the  only  one  who  took  your  father's 
part.  Your  father,  as  you  may  imagine,  is  very  anx 
ious  over  the  political  situation,  but  I  cannot  think 
our  people  are  going  to  fight  and  kill  each  other,  as 

261 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Colonel  Clayton  predicts  they  will  before  another 
year  has  passed." 

Oliver's  heart  bounded  like  a  loosened  balloon  as 
he  laid  down  his  mother's  letter  and  began  pacing  the 
room.  Neither  the  political  outlook,  nor  club  di? 
cussions,  nor  even  his  mother's  hopes  and  fears,  coi; 
cerned  him.  It  was  the  sudden  loosening  of  all  his 
bonds  that  thrilled  him.  Four  months  to  do  as  he 
pleased  in;  the  dreadful  mortgage  out  of  the  way  for 
six  months;  his  mother  willing,  and  he  with  money 
enough  in  his  pocket  to  pay  his  way  without  calling 
upon  her  for  a  penny!  Was  there  ever  such  luck! 
All  care  rolled  from  his  shoulders — even  the  desire 
to  see  his  mother  and  Sue  and  those  whom  he  loved 
at  home  was  forgotten  in  the  rosy  prospect  before 
him. 

The  next  day  he  told  Mr.  Slade  of  his  plans,  and 
read  him  part  of  his  mother's  letter. 

"  Very  sensible  woman,  your  mother,"  his  em 
ployer  answered,  with  his  bluff  heartiness.  "  Just 
the  thing  for  you  to  do;  and  I've  got  the  very  spot. 
Go  to  Ezra  Pollard's.  He  lives  up  in  the  moun 
tains  at  a  little  place  called  East  Branch,  on  the 
edge  of  a  wilderness.  I  fish  there  every  spring,  and 
I'll  give  you  a  letter  to  him." 

Long  before  his  day  of  departure  came  he  had 
dusted  out  his  old  hair  trunk — there  were  other  and 
more  modern  trunks  to  be  had,  but  Oliver  loved  this 

262 


BELOW  MOOSE   HILLOCK 

one  because  it  had  been  his  father's — gathered  his 
painting  materials  together  —  his  easel,  brushes, 
leather  case,  and  old  slouch  hat  that  he  wore  to  fish 
in  at  home — and  spent  his  time  counting  the  days 
and  hours  when  he  could  leave  the  world  behind  him 
and,  as  he  wrote  Fred,  "  begin  to  live." 

He  was  not  alone  in  this  planning  for  a  summer 
exodus.  The  other  students  had  indeed  all  cut  their 
tether-strings  and  disappeared  long  before  his  own 
freedom  came.  Jack  Bedford  had  gone  to  the  coast 
to  live  with  a  fisherman  and  paint  the  surf,  and  Fred 
was  with  his  people  away  up  near  the  lakes.  As  for 
the  lithographers,  sign-painters,  and  beginners,  they 
were  spending  their  evenings  somewhere  else  than  in 
the  old  room  under  the  shaded  gas-jets.  Even  Mar 
garet,  so  Mother  Mulligan  told  him,  was  up  "  wid  her 
folks,  somewheres." 

"  And  she  was  that  broken-hearted,"  she  added, 
"whin  they  shut  up  the  school — bad  cess  to  'em! 
Oh,  ye  would  a-nigh  kilt  yerself  wid  grief  to  a-seen 
her,  poor  darlint." 

"  Where  is  her  home  ?  "  asked  Oliver,  ignoring  the 
tribute  to  his  sympathetic  tendencies.  He  had  no 
reason  for  asking,  except  that  she  had  been  the  only 
woman  among  them,  and  he  accordingly  felt  that  a 
certain  courtesy  was  due  her  even  in  her  absence. 

"  I've  bothered  me  head  loose  tryin'  to  remimber, 
but  for  the  soul  o'  me,  I  can't.  It's  cold  enough  up 

2G3 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

there,  I  know,  to  freeze  ye  solid,  for  Miss  Margaret 
had  wan  o'  her  ears  nipped  last  time  she  was  home." 

And  so  one  fine  morning  in  June,  with  Oliver 
bursting  with  happiness,  the  hair  trunk  and  the 
leather  case  and  sketching  umbrella  were  thrown  out 
at  a  New  England  way-station  in  the  gray  dawn  from 
a  train  in  which  Oliver  had  spent  the  night  curled  up 
on  one  of  the  seats. 

Just  as  he  had  expected,  the  old  coach  that  was 
to  carry  him  was  waiting  beside  the  platform.  There 
was  a  rush  for  top  seats,  and  Oliver  got  the  one  be 
side  the  driver,  and  the  trunk  and  traps  were  stored 
in  the  boot  under  the  driver's  seat — it  was  a  very 
small  trunk  and  took  up  but  little  room — and  Marvin 
cracked  his  whip  and  away  everybody  went,  the  dogs 
barking  behind  and  the  women  waving  their  aprons 
from  the  porches  of  the  low  houses  facing  the  road. 

And  it  was  a  happy  young  fellow  who  filled  his 
lungs  with  the  fresh  air  of  the  morning  and  held  on 
to  the  iron  rail  of  the  top  seat  as  they  bumped  over 
the  "  Thank  ye  marms,"  and  who  asked  the  driver 
innumerable  questions  which  it  was  part  of  the  noted 
whip's  duty  and  always  his  pleasure  to  answer.  The 
squirrels  darted  across  the  road  as  if  to  get  a  look  at 
the  enthusiast  and  then  ran  for  their  lives  to  escape 
the  wheels;  and  the  crows  heard  the  rumble  and  rose 
in  a  body  from  the  sparse  cornfields  for  a  closer  viewj 

2G4 


BELOW  MOOSE  HILLOCK 

and  the  big  trees  arched  over  his  head,  cooling  the  air 
and  casting  big  shadows,  and  even  the  sun  kept  peep 
ing  over  the  edge  of  the  hills  from  behind  some  jut 
ting  rock  or  clump  of  pines  or  hemlock  as  if  bent  on 
lighting  up  his  face  so  that  everybody  could  see  how 
happy  he  was. 

As  the  day  wore  on  and  the  coach  rattled  over  the 
big  open  bridge  that  spanned  the  rushing  mountain- 
stream,  Oliver's  eye  caught,  far  up  the  vista,  the  little 
dent  in  the  line  of  blue  that  stood  low  against  the  sky. 
Tile  driver  said  this  was  the  Notch  and  that  the  big 
hump  to  the  right  was  Moose  Hillock,  and  that  Ezra's 
cabin  nestled  at  its  feet  and  was  watered  by  the  rush 
ing  stream,  only  it  was  a  tiny  little  brook  away  up 
there  that  anybody  could  step  over. 

"  'Tain't  bigger'n  yer  body  where  it  starts  out  fresh 
up  in  them  mountings,"  the  driver  said,  touching  his 
leaders  behind  their  ears  with  the  lash  of  his  whip. 
"  Runs  clean  round  Ezra's,  and's  jest  as  chuckfuli 
o'  trout,  be  gosh,  as  a  hive  is  o'  bees." 

And  the  swing  and  the  freedom  of  it  all !  ~No  office- 
hours  to  keep;  no  boxes  to  nail  up  and  roll  out — noth 
ing  but  sweetness  and  cool  draughts  of  fresh  moun 
tain-air,  and  big  trees  that  he  wanted  to  get  down 
and  hug;  and  jolly  laughing  brooks  that  ran  out  to 
meet  him  and  called  to  him  as  he  trotted  along,  or 
as  the  horses  did,  which  was  the  same  thing,  he  being 
part  of  the  team. 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

And  the  day !    Had  there  ever  been  such  another 
^nd  the  sky,  too,  filled  with  soft  white  clouds  that 
sailed  away  over  his  head — the  little  ones  far   in 
advance  and  already  crowding  up  the  Notch,  which 
Was  getting  nearer  every  hour. 

And  Marvin  the  driver — what  a  character  he  was 
and  how  quaint  his  speech.  And  the  cabins  by  the 
road,  with  their  trim  fences  and  winter's  wood  piled 
up  so  neatly  under  the  sheds — all  so  different  from 
any  which  he  had  seen  at  the  South  and  all  so  charm 
ing  and  exhilarating. 

Never  had  he  been  so  happy! 

And  why  not?  Twenty-three  and  in  perfect 
health,  without  a  care,  and  for  the  first  time  in  all 
his  life  doing  what  he  wanted  most  to  do,  with  oppor 
tunities  opening  every  hour  for  doing  what  he  be 
lieved  he  could  do  best. 

Oh,  for  some  planet  where  such  young  saplings  can 
grow  without  hinderance  from  the  ignorant  and  the 
unsympathetic;  where  they  can  reach  out  for  the  sun 
on  all  sides  and  stretch  their  long  arms  skyward; 
where  each  vine  can  grow  as  it  would  in  all  the  lux 
uriance  of  its  nature,  free  from  the  pruning-knife 
of  criticism  and  the  straitlaced  trellis  of  convention 
ality — a  planet  on  which  the  Puritan  with  his  creeds, 
customs,  fads,  issues,  and  dogmas,  and  the  Cavalier 
with  his  traditions  and  time-honored  notions  never 
sat  foot.  Where  every  round  peg  fits  a  round  hole, 

266 


BELOW  MOOSE  HILLOCK 

and  men  toil  with  a  will  and  with  unclouded  brows 
because  their  hearts  find  work  for  their  hands  and 
each  day's  task  is  a  joy. 

If  the  road  and  the  country  on  each  side  of  it,  and 
the  giant  trees,  now  that  they  neared  the  mountains, 
and  the  deep  ravines  and  busy,  hurrying  brooks  had 
each  inspired  some  exclamation  of  joy  from  Oliver, 
the  first  view  of  Ezra's  cabin  filled  him  so  full  of  un 
controllable  delight  that  he  could  hardly  keep  his 
seat  long  enough  for  Marvin  to  rein  in  his  horses 
aad  get  down  and  swing  back  the  gate  that  opened 
into  the  pasture  surrounding  the  house. 

"  Got  a  boarder  for  ye,  Ezra,"  Marvin  called  to 
Oliver's  prospective  host,  who  had  come  down  to 
meet  the  stage  and  get  his  empty  butter-pails.  Then, 
in  a  lower  tone :  "  Sezs  he's  a  painter  chap,  and  that 
Mr.  Slade  sent  him  up.  He's  goin'  to  bunk  in  with 
ye  all  summer,  he  sezs.  Seems  like  a  knowin',  happy 
kind  er  young  feller." 

They  were  pulling  the  pails  from  the  rear  boot, 
each  one  tied  up  in  a  wheat-sack,  with  a  card  marked 
"  Ezra  Pollard  "  sewed  on  the  outside  to  distinguish 
it  from  the  property  of  other  East  Branch  settlers 
up  and  down  the  road. 

Oliver  had  slipped  from  his  seat  and  was  tugging 
at  his  hair  trunk.  He  did  not  know  that  the  long, 
thin,  slab-sided  old  fellow  in  a  slouch  hat,  hickory 
ghirt  crossed  by  one  suspender,  and  heavy  cowhide 

267 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

boots  was  his  prospective  landlord.  He  supposed  him 
to  be  the  hired  man,  and  that  he  would  find  Mr.  Pol 
lard  waiting  for  him  in  the  little  sitting-room  with 
the  windows  full  of  geraniums  that  looked  so  invit 
ing  and  picturesque. 

"  Marve  sez  you're  lookin'  fur  me.  Come  along. 
Glad  ter  see  ye." 

"Are  you  Mr.  Pollard?"  His  surprise  not  only 
marked  the  tones  of  his  voice  but  the  expression  of 
his  face. 

"  No,  jes'  Ezry  Pollard,  that's  all.  Hope  Mr. 
Slade's  up  and  hearty?  " 

Mr.  Slade  was  never  so  "  up  and  hearty  "  as  was 
Oliver  that  next  morning. 

Up  with  the  sun  he  was,  and  hearty  as  a  young 
buck  out  of  a  bed  of  mountain-moss. 

"  Time  to  be  movin',  ain't  it?  "  came  Ezra  Pol 
lard's  voice,  shouting  up  the  unpainted  staircase, 
"  Hank's  drawed  a  bucket  out  here  at  the  well  for  ye 
to  wash  in.  Needn't  worry  about  no  towel.  Saman- 
thy's  got  one  fur  ye,  but  ye  kin  bring  yer  comb." 

At  the  sound  of  Ezra's  voice  Oliver  sprang  from 
the  coarse  straw  mattress — it  had  been  as  eider-down 
to  his  stage-jolted  body — pushed  open  the  wooden 
blind  and  peered  out.  The  sun  was  peeping  over  the 
edge  of  the  Notch  and  looking  with  wide  eyes  into  the 
saucer-shaped  valley  in  which  the  cabin  stood.  The 

268 


BELOW  MOOSE  HILLOCK 

fogs  which  at  twilight  had  stolen  down  to  the  mead' 
ows  and  had  made  a  night  of  it,  now  startled  into  life 
by  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun,  were  gathering  up  their 
skirts  of  shredded  mist  and  tiptoeing  back  up  the 
hill-side,  looking  over  their  shoulders  as  they  fled. 
The  fresh  smell  of  the  new  corn  watered  by  the 
night  dew  and  the  scent  of  pine  and  balsam  from  the 
woods  about  him,  filled  the  morning  air.  Songs  of 
birds  were  all  about,  a  robin  on  a  fence-post  and  two 
larks  high  in  air,  singing  as  they  flew. 

Below  him,  bounding  from  rock  to  rock,  ran  the 
brook,  laughing  in  the  sunlight  and  tossing  the  spray 
high  in  the  air  in  a  mad  frolic.  Across  this  swirling 
line  of  silver  lay  a  sparse  meadow  strewn  with  rock, 
plotted  with  squares  of  last  year's  crops — potatoes, 
string-beans,  and  cabbages,  and  now  combed  into 
straight  green  lines  of  early  buckwheat  and  turnips. 
Beyond  this  a  ragged  pasture,  fenced  with  blackened 
stumps,  from  which  came  the  tinkle  of  cow-bells,  and 
farther  on  the  grim,  silent  forest — miles  and  miles  of 
forest  seamed  by  a  single  road  leading  to  Moose  Hil 
lock  and  the  great  Stone  Eace. 

Oliver  slipped  into  his  clothes ;  ran  down  the  stairs 
and  out  into  the  fresh  morning  air.  As  he  walked 
toward  the  well  his  eyes  caught  sight  of  Hank's 
bucket  tilted  on  one  edge  of  the  well-curb,  over  which 
hung  the  big  sweep,  its  lower  end  loaded  with  stone. 
On  the  platform  stood  a  wooden  bench  sloppy 

269 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

with  the  drippings  of  the  water-soaked  pail.  This 
bench  held  a  tin  basin  and  half  a  .bar  of  rosin  soap. 
Beside  it  was  a  single  post  sprouting  hickory  prongs, 
on  which  were  hung  as  many  cleanly  scoured  milk- 
pails  glittering  in  the  sun.  On  this  post  Hank  had 
nailed  a  three-cornered  piece  of  looking-glass — Hank 
had  a  sweetheart  in  the  village  below — a  necessity 
and  useful  luxury,  he  told  Oliver  afterward,  "  in 
slickin'  yerself  up  fer  meals." 

Once  out  in  the  sunshine  Oliver,  with  the  instinct 
of  the  painter  suddenly  roused,  looked  about  him. 
He  found  that  the  cabin  which  had  delighted  him  so  in 
the  glow  of  the  afternoon,  was  cVen  more  enchanting 
in  the  light  of  the  morning.  To  the  plain,  everyday, 
practical  man  it  was  but  a  long  box  with  a  door  in  the 
middle  of  each  side,  front  and  back — one  opening 
into  a  sitting-room,  which  again  opened  into  a  bed 
room  in  which  Ezra  and  his  wife  slept,  with  the  win 
dows  choked  with  geraniums,  their  red  cheeks  pressed 
against  the  small  panes,  and  the  other  opening  into 
a  kitchen,  connecting  with  a  pantry  and  a  long, 
rambling  woodshed.  To  our  young  Raphael  the 
simple  cabin,  from  its  homely  sagging  door  to  its 
broken-backed  roof,  covered  with  rotting  shingles, 
was  nothing  less  than  an  enchanted  palace. 

He  remembered  the  shingles.  He  had  reached  up 
in  the  night  and  touched  them  with  his  hands.  He 
remembered,  t(M>,  the  fragrance  they  gave  out — a. 

270 


BELOW  MOOSE  HILLOCK 

hot,  dry,  spicy  smell.  He  remembered  also  the  dried 
apples  spread  out  on  a  board  beside  his  bed,  and  the 
broken  spinning-wheel,  and  the  wasp's  nest.  He  was 
sure,  too,  there  were  many  other  fascinating  relics 
stored  away  in  this  old  attic.  But  for  the  sputtering 
Nllow-candle,  which  the  night  before  was  nearly 
ournt  out,  he  would  have  examined  everything  else 
about  him  before  he  went  to  sleep. 

Then  his  eye  fell  on  the  woodshed  and  the  huge 
pile  of  chips  that  Hank's  axe  had  made  in  supplying 
$amanthy's  stove,  and  the  rickety,  clay-plastered 
buggy  and  buckboard  that  had  never  known  water 
since  the  day  of  their  birth.  And  the  two  muskrat 
skins  nailed  to  the  outside  planking — spoils  of  the 
mill-dam,  a  mile  below. 

Yes;  he  could  paint  here! 

With  a  thrill  of  delight  surging  through  him  he 
rolled  up  his  sleeves,  tilted  the  bucket,  filled  the 
basin  with  ice-cold  water  which  Hank  had  drawn  for 
him,  a  courtesy  only  showrn  a  stranger  guest,  and 
plunging  in  his  hands  and  face,  dashed  the  water  over 
his  head.  Samanthy,  meanwhile,  in  sunbonnet  and 
straight-up-and-down  calic  >  dress,  had  come  out  with 
the  towel — half  a  salt-sack,  washed  and  rewashed  to 
phenomenal  softness  (an  ideal  towel  is  a  salt-sack  to 
those  who  know7).  Then  came  the  rubbing  until  his 
flesh  was  aglow,  and  the  parting  of  the  wet  hair  with 
the  help  of  Hank's  glass,  and  with  a  toss  of  a  stray 

271 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

lock  back  from  his  forehead  Oliver  went  in  to  break 
fast. 

It  fills  me  with  envy  when  I  think  of  that  first  toilet 
of  Oliver's!  I  too  have  had  just  such  morning  dips 
• — one  in  Como,  with  the  great  cypresses  standing 
black  against  the  glow  of  an  Italian  dawn;  another 
in  the  Lido  at  sunrise,  my  gondolier  circling  about  me 
as  I  swam;  still  a  third  in  Stamboul,  with  the  long 
slants  of  light  piercing  the  gloom  of  the  stone  dome 
above  me — but  oh,  the  smell  of  the  pines  and  the 
great  sweep  of  openness,  with  the  mountains  look 
ing  down  and  the  sun  laughing,  and  the  sparkle  and 
joyousness  of  it  all!  Ah,  what  a  lucky  dog  was  this 
Oliver! 

And  the  days  that  followed !  Each  one  a  delight— 
each  one  happier  than  the  one  before.  The  sun 
seemed  to  soak  into  his  blood;  the  strength  of  the 
great  hemlocks  with  their  giant  uplifted  arms  seemed 
to  have  found  its  way  to  his  muscles.  He  grew 
stronger,  more  supple.  He  could  follow  Hank  all 
day  now,  tramping  the  brook  or  scaling  the  sides  of 
Bald  Face,  its  cheeks  scarred  with  thunderbolts. 
And  with  this  joyous  life  there  came  a  light  into  his 
eyes,  a  tone  in  his  voice,  a  spring  and  buoyancy  in 
his  step  that  brought  him  back  to  the  days  when  he 
ran  across  Kennedy  Square  and  had  no  care  for  the 
day  nor  thought  for  the  morrow.  Before  the  week 
was  out  he  had  covered  half  a  dozen  canvases  with 

272 


BELOW  MOOSE  HILLOCK 

pictures  of  the  house  as  he  saw  it  that  first  morning, 
bathed  in  the  sunshine;  of  the  brook;  the  sweep  of 
the  ^otchj  and  two  or  three  individual  trees  that  he 
had  fallen  in  love  with — a  ragged  birch  in  particular 
— a  tramp  of  a  birch  with  its  toes  out  of  its  shoes  and 
its  bark  coat  in  tatters. 

Before  the  second  week  had  arrived  he  had  sought 
the  main  stage-road  and  had  begun  work  on  a  big 
hemlock  that  stood  sentinel  over  a  turn  in  the  high 
way.  There  was  a  school-house  in  the  distance  and 
a  log-bridge  under  which  the  brook  plunged.  Here 
Le  settled  himself  for  serious  work. 

He  was  so  engrossed  that  he  had  not  noticed  the 
school-children  who  had  come  up  noiselessly  from 
behind  and  were  looking  in  wonder  at  his  drawings. 
Presently  a  child,  who  in  her  eagerness  had  touched 
his  shoulder,  broke  the  stillness  in  apology. 

"  Say,  Mister,  there's  a  lady  comes  to  school  every 
day.  She's  a  painter  too,  and  drawed  Sissy 
Mathers." 

Oliver  glanced  at  the  speaker  and  the  group  about 
her;  wished  them  all  good-morning  and  squeezed  a 
fresh  tube  on  his  palette.  He  was  too  much  absorbed 
in  his  work  for  prolonged  talk.  The  child,  embold 
ened  by  his  cheery  greeting,  began  again,  the  others 
crowding  closer.  "  She  drawed  the  bridge  too,  and 
me  and  Jennie  Waters  was  sitting  on  the  rail — she's 
awful  nice." 

273 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Oliver  looked  up,  smiling. 

"What's  her  name?" 

"  I   don't  know.      Teacher  calls  her  Miss 
garet,   but  there's   more   to  it.      She  comes   every 
year." 

Oliver  bent  over  his  easel,  drew  out  a  fine  brush 
from  the  sheaf  in  his  hand,  caught  up  a  bit  of  yellow 
ochre  from  his  palette  and  touched  up  the  shadow  of 
the  birch.  "  All  the  women  painters  must  be  Mar 
garets,"  he  said  to  himself.  Then  he  fell  to  wonder 
ing  what  had  become  of  her  since  the  school  closed. 
He  had  always  felt  uncomfortable  over  the  night 
when  he  had  defended  "  the  red-headed  girl  in 
blue  gingham,"  as  she  was  called  by  the  students. 
She  had  placed  him  in  the  wrong  by  misunder 
standing  his  reasons  for  serving  her.  The  students 
had  always  looked  upon  him  after  that  as  a  quarrel 
some  person,  when  he  was  only  trying  to  protect 
a  woman  from  insult.  He  could  not  find  it  in  his 
heart  to  blame  her,  but  he  wished  that  it  had  not  hap 
pened.  As  these  thoughts  filled  his  mind  he  became 
so  absorbed  that  the  children's  good-by  failed  to 
reach  his  ear. 

That  day  Hank  had  brought  him  his  luncheon — • 
two  ears  of  hot  corn  in  a  tin  bucket,  four  doughnuts 
and  an  apple — the  corn  in  the  bottom  of  the  bucket 
and  the  doughnuts  and  apple  on  top.  He  could  have 
walked  home  for  his  midday  meal,  for  he  was  within 

274 


BELOW  MOOSE  HILLOCK 

sound  of  Samanthy's  dinner-horn,  but  he  liked  it  bet 
ter  this  way. 

Leaving  his  easel  standing  in  the  road,  he  had 
waved  his  hand  in  good-by  to  Hank,  picked  up  the 
bucket  and  had  crept  under  the  shadow  of  the  bridge 
to  eat  his  luncheon.  He  had  finished  the  corn, 
thrown  the  cobs  to  the  fish,  and  was  beginning  on  the 
doughnuts,  when  a  step  on  the  planking  above  him 
caused  him  to  look  up.  A  girl  in  a  tam-o'-shanter 
cap  was  leaning  over  the  rail.  The  sun  was  behind 
heii^  throwing  her  face  into  shadow — so  blinding  a 
light  that  Oliver  only  caught  the  nimbus  of  fluffy  hair 
that  framed  the  dark  spot  of  her  head.  Then  came 
a  voice  that  sent  a  thrill  of  surprise  through  him. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Horn !  Who  wrould  have  thought  of 
meeting  you  here?  " 

Oliver  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant — a  half-eaten 
doughnut  in  one  hand,  his  slouch  hat  in  the  other. 
With  this  he  was  shading  his  eyes  against  the  glare  of 
the  sun.  He  was  still  ignorant  of  who  had  spoken  to 
hin. , 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I — why,  Miss  GRANT!  "  The 
words  burst  from  his  lips  as  if  they  had  been  fired 
from  a  gun.  "  You  here !  " 

"  Yes,  I  live  only  twenty  miles  away,  and  I  conte 
here  every  year.  Where  are  you  staying?  " 

"  At  Pollard's." 

*'  Why,  that's  the  next  clearing  from  mine.  I'm 
275 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

at  old  Mrs.  Taft's.  Oh,  please  don't  leave  your 
luncheon." 

Oliver  had  bounded  up  the  bank  to  a  place  beside 
her. 

"  How  good  it  is  to  find  you  here.  I  am  so  glad." 
He  was  glad;  he  meant  every  word  of  it.  "  Mrs. 
Mulligan  said  you  lived  up  in  the  woods,  but  I  had  no 
idea  it  was  in  these  mountains.  Have  you  had  your 
luncheon? " 

"  ISTo,  not  yet,"  and  Margaret  held  up  a  basket. 
"Look!  "  and  she  raised  the  lid.  "Elderberry  pie, 
two  pieces  of  cake — 

"  Good!  and  I  have  three  doughnuts  and  an  apple. 
I  swallowed  every  grain  of  my  hot  corn  like  a  greedy 
Jack  Horner,  or  you  should  have  half  of  it.  Come 
down  under  the  bridge,  it's  so  cool  there,"  and  he 
caught  her  hand  to  help  her  down  the  bank. 

She  followed  him  willingly.  She  had  seen  him 
greet  Fred,  and  Jack  Bedford,  and  even  the  gentle 
Professor  with  just  such  outbursts  of  affection,  and 
she  knew  there  was  nothing  especially  personal  to 
her  in  it  all.  It  was  only  his  way  of  saying  he  was 
glad  to  see  her. 

Oliver  laid  the  basket  and  tin  can  on  a  flat  stone 
that  the  spring  freshets  had  scoured  clean;  spread 
his  brown  corduroy  jacket  on  the  pebbly  beach  beside 
it,  and  with  a  laugh  and  the  mock  gesture  of  a  court 
ier,  conducted  her  to  the  head  of  his  improvised  table. 

276 


BELOW  MOOSE   HILLOCK 

Margaret  laughed  and  returned  the  bow,  stepping 
backward  with  the  sweep  of  a  great  lady,  and  settled 
herself  beside  him.  In  a  moment  she  was  on  her 
knees  bending  over  the  brook,  her  hands  in  the  water, 
the  tam-o'-shanter  beside  her.  She  must  wash  her 
hands,  she  said — "  there  was  a  whole  lot  of  chrome 
yellow  on  her  fingers  " — and  she  held  them  up  with  a 
laugh  for  Oliver's  inspection.  Oliver  watched  her 
while  she  dried  and  bathed  her  shapely  hands, 
smoothed  the  hair  from  her  temples  and  tightened 
the  coil  at  the  back  of  her  head  which  held  all  this 

* 

flood  of  gold  in  check,  then  he  threw  himself 
down  beside  her,  waiting  until  she  should  serve  the 
feast. 

As  he  told  her  of  his  trip  up  the  valley  and  the 
effect  it  made  upon  him,  and  how  he  had  never 
dreamed  of  anything  so  beautiful,  and  how  good  the 
Pollards  were;  and  what  he  had  painted  and  what 
he  expected  to  paint;  talking  all  the  time  with  his 
thumb  circling  about  as  if  it  was  a  bit  of  charcoal  and 
the  air  it  swept  through  but  a  sheet  of  Whatman's 
best,  her  critical  eye  roamed  over  his  figure  and  cos 
tume.  She  had  caught  in  her  first  swift,  comprehen 
sive  glance  from  over  the  bridge-rail,  the  loose  jacket 
and  broad-brimmed  planter's  hat,  around  which,  with 
his  love  of  color,  Oliver  had  twisted  a  spray  of  nas 
turtium  blossoms  and  leaves  culled  from  the  garden- 
£>atch  that  morning;  but  now  that  he  was  closer,  she 

277 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

saw  the  color  in  his  cheeks  and  noticed,  with  a  sup 
pressed  smile,  the  slight  mustache  curling  at  the  ends, 
a  new  feature  since  the  school  had  closed.  She  fol 
lowed  too  the  curves  of  the  broad  chest  and  the 
muscles  outlined  through  his  shirt.  She  had  never 
thought  him  so  strong  and  graceful,  nor  so  handsome. 
(The  smile  came  to  the  surface  now — an  approving, 
admiring  smile.)  It  was  the  mountain-climbing,  no 
doubt,  she  said  to  herself,  and  the  open-air  life  that 
had  wrought  the  change. 

With  a  laugh  and  toss  of  her  head  she  unpacked 
her  own  basket  and  laid  her  contribution  to  the  feast 
on  the  flat  rock — the  pie  on  a  green  dock-leaf,  which 
she  reached  over  and  pulled  from  the  water's  edge, 
and  the  cake  on  the  pink  napkin — the  only  sign  of 
city  luxury  in  her  outlay.  Oliver's  eye  meanwhile 
wandered  over  her  figure  and  costume — a  costume 
he  had  never  seen  before  on  any  living  woman,  cer 
tainly  not  any  woman  around  Kennedy  Square. 
The  cloth  skirt  came  to  her  ankles,  which  were  cov 
ered  with  yarn  stockings,  and  her  feet  were  encased 
in  shoes  that  gave  him  the  shivers,  the  soles  being 
as  thick  as  his  own  and  the  leather  as  tough.  (Sue 
Clayton  would  have  died  with  laughter  had  she  seen 
those  shoes.)  Her  blouse  was  of  gray  flannel,  belted 
to  the  waist  by  a  cotton  saddle-girth — white  and  red 
— and  as  broad  as  her  hand.  The  tam-o'-shanter  was 
coarse  and  rough,  evidently  home-made,  and  not  at 

278 


BELOW  MOOSE  HILLOCK 

all  like  McFudd's,  which  was  as  soft  as  the  back  ot 
a  kitten  and  without  a  seam. 

Then  his  eyes  sought  her  face.  He  noticed  how 
brown  she  was — and  how  ruddy  and  healthy.  How 
red  the  lips — red  as  mountain-berries,  and  back  of 
them  big  white  teeth — white  as  peeled  almonds.  He 
caught  the  line  of  the  shoulders  and  the  round  of  the 
full  arm  and  tapering  wrrist,  and  the  small,  well- 
shaped  hand.  "  Queer  clothes,"  he  said  to  himself 
• — "  but  the  girl  inside  is  all  right." 

Sitting  under  the  shadow  of  the  old  bridge  on  the 
main  highway,  each  weighed  and  balanced  the  other, 
even  as  they  talked  aloud  of  the  Academy  School, 
and  the  pupils,  and  the  dear  old  Professor  whom  they 
both  loved.  They  discussed  the  prospect  of  its  doors 
being  opened  the  next  winter.  They  talked  of  Mrs. 
Mulligan,  and  the  old  Italian  who  sold  peanuts, 
and  whose  head  Margaret  had  painted;  and  of  Jack 
Bedford  and  Fred  Stone — the  dearest  fellow  in  the 
world — and  last  year's  pictures — especially  Church's 
'*  Niagara,"  the  sensation  of  the  year,  and  "Whitt- 
redge's  "  Mountain  Brook,"  and  every  other  subject 
their  two  busy  brains  could  rake  and  scrape  up  except 
• — and  this  subject,  strange  to  say,  was  the  only  one 
really  engrossing  their  two  minds — the  overturning 
of  Mr.  Judson's  body  on  the  art-school  floor,  and  the 
upsetting  of  Miss  Grant's  mind  for  days  thereafter. 
Once  Oliver  had  unintentionally  neared  the  danger- 

279 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

line  by  mentioning  the  lithographer's  name,  but  Mar 
garet  had  suddenly  become  interested  in  the  move 
ments  of  a  chipmunk  that  had  crept  down  for  the 
crumbs  of  their  luncheon,  and  with  a  woman's  wit 
had  raised  her  finger  to  her  lips  to  command  silence 
lest  he  should  be  frightened  off. 

They  painted  no  more  that  afternoon.  When  the 
shadows  began  to  fall  in  the  valley  they  started  up 
the  road,  picking  up  Oliver's  easel  and  trap — both 
had  stood  unmolested  and  would  have  done  so  all 
summer  with  perfect  safety — and  Oliver  walked  with 
Margaret  as  far  as  the  bars  that  led  into  Taft's  past 
ure.  There  they  bade  each  other  good-night,  Mar 
garet  promising  to  be  ready  in  the  morning  with 
her  big  easel  and  a  fresh  canvas,  which  Oliver  was 
to  carry,  when  they  would  both  go  sketching  together 
and  make  a  long  blessed  summer  day  of  it. 

That  night  Oliver's  upraised,  restless  hands  felt 
the  shingles  over  his  head  more  than  once  before  he 
could  get  to  sleep.  He  had  not  thought  he  could  be 
any  happier — but  he  was.  Margaret's  unexpected 
appearance  had  restored  to  him  that  something  which 
the  old  life  at  home  had  always  yielded.  He  was 
never  really  happy  without  the  companionship  of  a 
woman,  and  this  he  had  not  had  since  leaving  Ken 
nedy  Square.  Those  he  had  met  on  rare  occasions 
in  New  York  were  either  too  conventional  or  self- 
conscious,  or  they  seemed  to  be  offended  at  his  famil- 

280 


iar  Southern  ways.  This  one  was  so  sensible  and 
companionable,  and  so  appreciative  and  sympathetic. 
He  felt  he  could  say  anything  to  her  and  she  would 
know  what  he  meant.  Perhaps,  too,  by  and  by  she 
cvould  understand  just  why  he  had  upset  a  man  who 
had  been  rude  to  her. 

Margaret  lay  awake,  too — not  long — not  more 
than  five  minutes,  perhaps.  Long  enough,  however, 
to  wish  she  was  not  so  sunburnt,  and  that  she  had 
brought  her  other  dress  and  a  pair  of  gloves  and  a 
hat  instead  of  this  rough  mountain-suit.  Long 
enough,  too,  to  recall  Oliver's  standing  beside  her  on 
the  bridge  with  his  big  hat  sweeping  the  ground,  the 
color  mounting  to  his  cheeks,  and  that  joyous  look 
in  his  eyes. 

"  Was  he  really  glad  to  see  me,"  she  said  to  herself, 
as  she  dropped  off  into  dreamland,  "  or  is  it  his  way 
with  all  the  women  he  meets?  I  wonder,  too,  if  he 
protects  them  all?  " 

And  so  ended  a  day  that  always  rang  out  in  Oli 
ver's  memory  with  a  note  of  its  own. 

These  dreams  under  the  shingles!  What  would 
life  be  without  them? 


CHAPTER  XIV 

UNDEK    A    BARK    SLANT 

The  weeks  that  followed  were  rare  ones  for  Mar 
garet  and  Oliver. 

They  painted  all  day  and  every  day. 

The  little  school-children  posed  for  them,  and  so 
did  the  prim  school-mistress,  a  girl  of  eighteen  in 
spectacles  with  hair  cut  short  in  the  neck.  And  old 
Jonathan  Gordon,  the  fisherman,  posed,  too,  with 
a  string  of  trout  in  one  hand  and  a  long  pole  cut 
from  a  sapling  in  the  other.  And  once  our  two 
young  comrades  painted  the  mill-dam  and  the  mill — 
Oliver  doing  the  first  and  Margaret  the  last;  and 
Baker,  the  miller,  caught  them  at  it,  and  insisted 
in  all  sincerity  that  some  of  the  money  which  the 
pictures  brought  must  come  to  him,  if  the  report  were 
true  that  painters  did  get  money  for  pictures.  "  It's 
my  mill,  ain't  it? — and  I  ain't  give  no  permission  to 
take  no  part  of  it  away.  Ilev  I?  " 

They  climbed  the  ravines,  Margaret  carrying  the 
luncheon  and  Oliver  the  sketch-traps ;  they  built  fires 
of  birch-bark  and  roasted  potatoes,  or  made  tea  in 
the  little  earthen  pot  that  Mrs.  Taft  loaned  her.  Or 

282 


UNDER  A  BARK   SLANT 

they  waited  for  the  stage  in  the  early  morning,  and 
went  half  a  dozen  miles  down  the  valley  to  paint  some 
waterfall  Oliver  had  seen  the  day  he  drove  up  with 
Marvin,  or  a  particular  glimpse  of  Moose  Hillock 
from  the  covered  bridge,  or  various  shady  nooks  and 
sunlit  vistas  that  remained  fastened  in  Oliver's  mind, 
and  the  memory  of  which  made  him  unhappy  until 
Margaret  could  enjoy  them,  too. 

The  fact  that  he  and  a  woman  whom  he  had  known 
but  a  little  while  were  roaming  the  woods  together, 
quite  as  a  brother  and  sister  might  have  done,  never 
occurred  to  him.  If  it  had  it  would  have  made  no 
difference,  nor  could  he  have  understood  why  any 
barrier  should  have  been  put  up  between  them.  He 
had  been  taking  care  of  girls  in  that  same  way  all  his 
life.  Every  woman  was  a  sister  to  him  so  far  as  his 
reverent  protection  over  her  went.  The  traditions 
of  Kennedy  Square  had  taught  him  this. 

As  the  joyous  weeks  flew  by,  even  the  slight  re 
serve  which  had  marked  their  earlier  intercourse  be 
gan  to  wear  off.  It  Avas  "  Oliver  "  and  "  Margaret  " 
now,  and  even  "  Ollie  "  and  "  Madge  "  when  they 
forgot  themselves  and  each  other  in  their  work. 

To  Margaret  this  free  and  happy  life  together 
seemed  natural  enough.  She  had  decided  on  the 
day  of  their  first  meeting  that  Oliver's  interest  in 
her  was  due  wholly  to  his  love  of  companionship,  and 
not  because  of  any  special  liking  he  might  feel  for 

283 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

her.  Had  she  not  seen  him 'quite  as  cordial  and  as 
friendly  to  the  men  he  knew  ?  Satisfied  on  this  point, 
Oliver  began  to  take  the  place  of  a  brother,  or  cousin, 
or  some  friend  of  her  youth  who  loved  another 
woman,  perhaps,  and  was,  therefore,  safe  against  all 
contingencies,  while  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  en 
joyment  of  that  rare  luxury — the  rarest  that  comes 
to  a  woman — daily  association  with  a  man  who  could 
be  big  and  strong  and  sympathetic,  and  yet  ask  noth 
ing  in  return  for  what  she  gave  him  but  her  com 
panionship  and  confidence. 

In  the  joy  of  this  new  intercourse,  and  with  his 
habit  of  trusting  implicitly  everyone  whom  he  loved 
— man,  woman,  or  child — Oliver,  long  before  the 
first  month  was  over,  had  emptied  his  heart  to  Mar 
garet  as  completely  as  he  had  ever  done  to  Miss  Clen- 
denning.  He  had  told  her  of  Sue  and  of  Miss  Lavin- 
ia's  boudoir,  and  of  Mr.  Crocker  and  his  pictures; 
and  of  his  poor  father's  struggles  and  his  dear 
mother's  determination  to  send  him  from  home — not 
about  the  mortgage,  that  was  his  mother's  secret,  not 
his  own — and  of  the  great  receptions  given  by  his 
Uncle  Tilghman,  and  of  all  the  other  wonderful  do 
ings  in  Kennedy  Square. 

She  had  listened  at  first  in  astonishment,  and  then 
with  impatience.  Many  of  the  things  that  seemed 
so  important  to  him  were  valueless  in  her  more  prac 
tical  eyes.  Instead  of  a  regime  which  ennobled 

284 


UNDER   A   BARK    SLANT 

those  who  enjoyed  its  privileges,  she  saw  only  a  slav 
ish  devotion  to  worn-out  traditions,  and  a  clannish 
provincialism  which  proved  to  her  all  the  more 
clearly  the  narrow-mindedness  of  the  people  who  sus 
tained  and  defended  them.  So  far  as  she  could 
judge,  the  qualities  that  she  deemed  necessary  in  the 
make-up  of  a  robust  life,  instinct  with  purpose  and 
accomplishment,  seemed  to  be  entirely  lacking  in 
Kennedy  Square  formulas.  She  saw,  too,  with  a  cer 
tain  undefined  pain,  that  Oliver's  mind  had  been 
greatly  warped  by  these  influences.  Mrs.  Horn's 
domination  over  him,  strange  to  say,  greatly  dis 
turbed  her;  why,  she  could  not  tell.  "  She  must  be 
a  proud,  aristocratic  woman,"  she  had  said  to  herself 
after  one  of  Oliver's  outbursts  of  enthusiasm  over 
his  mother;  "  wedded  to  patrician  customs  and  with 
no  consideration  for  anyone  outside  of  her  class." 

And  yet  none  of  these  doubts  and  criticisms  made 
the  summer  days  less  enjoyable. 

One  bright,  beautiful  morning  when  the  sky  was 
a  turquoise,  the  air  a  breath  of  heaven,  and  the 
brooks  could  be  heard  laughing  clear  out  on  the  main 
road,  Oliver  and  Margaret,  who  had  been  separated 
for  some  days  while  she  paid  a  visit  to  her  family  at 
home,  started  to  find  a  camp  that  Hank  had  built 
the  winter  before  as  a  refuge  while  he  was  hunting 
deer.  They  had  reached  a  point  in  the  forest  where 
two  paths  met,  when  Margaret's  quick  ear  caught  the 

285 


sound  of  a  human  voice,  and  she  stopped  to 
listen. 

"  Quick —  "  she  cried — "  get  behind  these  spruces, 
or  he  will  see  us  and  stop  singing.  It's  old  Mr.  Bur 
ton.  He  is  such  a  dear!  He  spends  his  summers 
here.  I  often  meet  him  and  he  always  bows  to  me 
so  politely,  although  he  doesn't  know  me." 

A  man  of  sixty — bare-headed,  dressed  in  a  gray 
suit,  with  his  collar  and  coat  over  his  arm  and  hands 
filled  with  wild-flowers,  was  passing  leisurely  along, 
singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Once  he  stopped,  and, 
bending  over,  picked  a  bunch  of  mountain-berries 
which  he  tucked  into  a  buttonhole  of  his  flannel  shirt, 
just  before  disappearing  in  a  turn  of  the  path. 

Oliver  looked  after  him  for  a  moment.  He  had 
caught  the  look  of  sweet  serenity  on  the  idler's  face, 
and  the  air  of  joyousness  that  seemed  to  linger  behind 
him  like  a  perfume,  and  it  filled  him  with  delight. 

"  There,  Margaret!  that's  what  I  call  a  happy  man. 
I'll  wager  you  he  has  never  done  anything  all  his  life 
but  that  which  he  loved  to  do — just  lives  out  here  and 
throws  his  heart  wide  open  for  every  beautiful  thing 
that  can  crowd  into  it.  That's  the  kind  of  a  man  I 
want  to  be.  Oh !  I'm  so  glad  I  saw  him." 

Margaret  was  silent.  She  was  walking  ahead,  her 
staff  in  her  hand;  the  fallen  trunks  and  heavy  under 
brush  making  it  difficult  for  them  to  walk  abreast. 

"  Do  you  think  that  he  never  had  to  work,  to  be 
286 


UNDER   A   BARK    SLANT 

able  to  enjoy  himself  as  he  does?"  she  asked  over 
her  shoulder,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"  Perhaps — but  he  loved  what  he  was  doing." 

"  No,  he  didn't — he  hated  it — hated  it  all  his  life." 
The  tone  carried  a  touch  of  defiance  that  was  new  to 
Oliver.  He  stepped  quickly  after  her,  with  a  sudden 
desire  to  look  into  her  face.  Ten  minutes,  at  least, 
had  passed  during  which  he  had  seen  only  the  back 
of  her  head. 

Margaret  heard  his  step  behind  her  and  quickened 
h»r  own.  Something  was  disturbing  the  joyousness 
of  our  young  Diana  this  lovely  summer  morning. 

"  What  did  the  old  fellow  do  for  a  living,  Mar 
garet?  "  Oliver  called,  still  trying  to  keep  up  with 
Margaret's  springing  step. 

"  Sold  lard  and  provisions,  and  over  the  counter, 
too,"  she  answered,  with  a  note  almost  of  exultation 
in  her  voice  (she  was  thinking  of  Mrs.  Horn  and 
a  Kennedy  Square).  "  Mrs.  Taft  knows  him  and 
used  to  send  him  her  bacon.  He  retired  rich 
some  years  ago,  and  now  he  can  sing  all  day  if 
he  wants  to." 

It  was  Oliver's  turn  to  be  silent.  The  tones  of 
Margaret's  voice  had  hurt  him.  For  some  minutes 
he  made  no  reply.  Then  wheeling  suddenly  he 
sprang  over  a  moss-covered  trunk  that  blocked  her 
path,  stepped  in  front  of  her,  and  laid  his  hand  on  hex 
shoulder. 

287 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  Not  offended,  Margaret,  are  you?"  he  asked, 
looking  earnestly  into  her  eyes. 

"  No — what  nonsense !  Of  course  not.  Why  do 
you  ask? " 

"  "Well,  somehow  you  spoke  as  if  you  were." 

"  No,  I  didn't;  I  only  said  how  dear  Mr.  Burton 
was,  and  he  is.  How  silly  you  are !  Come — we  will 
be  late  for  the  camp." 

They  both  walked  on  in  silence,  now,  he  ahead 
this  time,  brushing  aside  the  thick  undergrowth  that 
blocked  the  path. 

The  exultant  tones  in  her  voice  which  had  hurt 
her  companion,  and  which  had  escaped  her  uncon 
sciously,  still  rang  in  her  own  ears.  She  felt  ashamed 
of  the  outburst  now  as  she  watched  him  cutting  the 
branches  ahead  of  her,  and  thought  how  gentle  and 
tender  he  had  always  been  to  her  and  how  watchful 
over  her  comfort.  She  wondered  at  the  cause  of  her 
frequent  discontent.  Then,  like  an  evil  spirit  that 
would  not  down,  there  arose  in  her  mind,  as  she 
walked  on,  the  picture  she  had  formed  of  Kennedy 
Square.  She  thought  of  his  mother's  imperious  nat 
ure  absorbing  all  the  love  of  his  heart  and  inspiring 
and  guiding  his  every  action  and  emotion;  of  the 
unpractical  father — a  dreamer  and  an  enthusiast,  the 
worst  possible  example  he  could  have;  of  the  false 
standards  and  class  distinctions  which  had  warped  his 
early  life  and  which  were  still  dominating  him.  With 

288 


UNDER   A  BARK   SLAXT 

an  abrupt  gesture  of  impatience  she  stood  still  in  the 
path  and  looked  down  upon  the  ground.  An  angry 
flush  suffused  her  face. 

"  What  a  stupid  fool  you  are,  Margaret  Grant,'* 
she  burst  out  impatiently.  "  What  are  Kennedy 
Square  and  the  whole  Horn  family  to  you?  " 

Oliver's  halloo  brought  her  to  consciousness. 

"  Here's  that  slant,  Margaret — oh,  such  a  lovely 
spot!  Hurry  up." 

"  The  slant  "  had  been  built  between  two  great 
tree.s  and  stood  on  a  little  mound  of  earth  surrounded 
by  beds  of  velvety  green  moss — huge  green  winding 
sheets,  under  which  lay  the  bodies  of  many  giant 
pines  and  hemlocks.  The  shelter  was  made  of  bark 
and  bedded  down  with  boughs  of  sweet-balsam.  Out 
side,  on  a  birch  sapling,  supported  by  two  forked 
sticks,  hung  a  rusty  kettle.  Beneath  the  rude  spit, 
half-hidden  by  the  growth  of  the  summer,  lay  the 
embers  of  the  abandoned  camp-fires  that  had  warmed 
and  comforted  Hank  and  his  companions  the  preced 
ing  winter. 

Oliver  raked  the  charred  embers  from  under  the 
tangled  vines  that  hid  them,  while  Margaret  peeled 
the  bark  from  a  silver-birch  for  kindling.  Soon  a 
curl  of  blue  smoke  mounted  heavenward,  hung  sus 
pended  over  the  tree-tops,  and  then  drifted  away  in 
scarfs  of  silver  haze  dimming  the  forms  of  the  giant 
trunks. 

289 


,     THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVEK  HORN 

Our  young  enthusiast  watched  the  Diaz  of  a  wood 
interior  turn  slowly  into  a  Corot,  and  with  a  cry  of 
delight  was  about  to  unstrap  his  own  and  Margaret's 
sketching-kits,  when  the  sun  was  suddenly  blotted 
out  by  a  heavy  cloud,  and  the  quick  gloom  of  a 
mountain-storm  chilling  the  sunlit  vista  to  a  dull 
slate  gray  settled  over  the  forest.  Oliver  walked 
over  to  the  brook  for  a  better  view  of  the  sky,  and 
came  back  bounding  over  the  moss-covered  logs  as 
he  ran.  There  was  not  a  moment  to  lose  if  they 
would  escape  being  drenched  to  the  skin. 

The  outlook  was  really  serious.  Old  Bald  Face 
had  not  only  lost  his  smile — a  marvellously  happy 
one  with  the  early  sun  upon  his  wrinkled  counte 
nance — but  he  had  put  on  his  judgment-cap  of  gray 
clouds  and  had  begun  to  thunder  o  ut  his  disapproval 
of  everything  about  him.  Moose  Hillock  evidently 
heard  the  challenge,  for  he  was  answering  back  in 
the  murky  darkness.  Soon  a  cold,  raw  wind,  which 
had  been  asleep  in  the  hills  for  weeks,  awoke  with 
a  snarl  and  started  down  the  gorge.  Then  the  little 
leaves  began  to  quiver,  the  big  trees  to  groan,  in  their 
anxiety  not  knowing  what  the  will  of  the  wind  would 
be,  and  the  merry  little  waves  that  had  chased  each 
other  all  the  morning  over  the  sunny  shallows  of  the 
brook,  grew  ashy  pale  as  they  looked  up  into  the  an 
gry  face  of  the  Storm-God,  and  fled  shivering  to  the 
shore. 

290 


UNDER  A  BARK   SLANT 

Oliver  whipped  out  his  knife,  stripped  the  heavy 
outer  bark  from  a  white  birch,  and  before  the  dash' 
ing  rain  could  catch  up  with  the  wind,  had  repaired 
the  slant  so  as  to  make  it  water-tight — Hank  had 
taught  him  this — then  he  started  another  great  fire 
in  front  of  the  slant  and  threw  fresh  balsam  boughs 
on  the  bed  that  had  rested  Hank's  tired  limbs,  and 
he  and  Margaret  crept  in  and  were  secure. 

The  equanimity  of  Margaret's  temper,  temporarily 
disturbed  by  her  vivid  misconception  of  Kennedy 
Square,  was  restored.  The  dry  shelter,  the  warm 
fire,  the  sense  of  escape  from  the  elements,  all  filled 
her  heart  with  gladness.  Never  since  the  day  she 
met  him  on  the  bridge  had  she  been  so  happy. 
Again,  as  when  Oliver  championed  her  in  the  old 
Academy  school-room,  there  stole  over  her  a  vague 
sense  of  pleasure  in  being  protected. 

"  Isn't  it  jolly!  "  she  said  as  she  sat  hunched  up 
beside  him.  "  I'm  as  dry  as  a  bone,  not  a  drop  on. 
me." 

Oliver  was  even  more  buoyant.  There  was  some 
thing  irresistibly  cosey  and  comfortable  in  the  shelter 
which  he  had  provided  for  her — something  of 
warmth  and  companionship  and  rest.  But  more  in 
tensely  enjoyable  than  all  was  the  thought  that  he 
was  taking  care  of  a  woman  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  as  it  seemed  to  him.  And  in  a  house  of  his  own 
making,  and  in  a  place,  too,  of  his  own  choosing, 

291 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

surrounded  by  the  big  trees  that  he  loved.  He  had 
even  outwitted  the  elements — the  wind  and  the  rain 
find  the  chill — in  her  defence.  Old  Moose  Hillock 
could  bellow  now  and  White  Face  roar,  and  the  wind 
and  rain  vent  their  wrath,  but  Margaret,  close  beside 
him,  would  still  be  warm  and  dry  and  safe. 

By  this  time  she  had  hung  her  tam-o'-shanter  and 
jacket  on  a  nail  that  she  had  found  in  the  bark  over 
her  head,  and  was  arranging  her  hair. 

"  It's  just  like  life,  Oliver,  isn't  it? "  she  said,  a? 
she  tightened  the  coil  in  her  neck.  "  All  we  want, 
after  all,  is  a  place  to  get  into  out  of  the  storm  and 
wet,  not  a  big  place,  either." 

"  What  kind  of  a  place  ?  "  He  was  on  his  knees 
digging  a  little  trench  with  his  knife,  piling  up  the 
moist  earth  in  miniature  embankments,  so  that  the 
dripping  from  the  roof  would  not  spatter  this  Prin 
cess  of  his  whom  he  had  saved  from  the  tempest 
outside. 

"  Oh,  any  kind  of  a  place  if  you  have  people  you're 
fond  of.  I'd  love  a  real  studio  somewhere,  and  a  few 
things  hung  about — some  old  Delft  and  one  or  two 
bits  of  stuff — and  somebody  to  take  care  of  me." 

Oliver  shifted  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  looked 
up.  Would  she,  with  all  her  independence,  really 
like  to  have  someone  take  care  of  her?  He  had 
seen  no  evidence  of  it. 

"Who?"  he  asked.  He  had  never  heard  her 
292 


UNDER  A  BARK   SLANT 

mention  anybody's  name — but  then  she  had  not  told 
him  everything.- 

He  had  dropped  his  eyes  again,  finishing  the  drain 
and  flattening  the  boughs  under  her,  to  make  the 
seat  the  easier. 

"  Oh,  some  old  woman,  perhaps,  like  dear  old  Mrs. 
Mulligan."  There  was  no  coquetry  in  her  tone. 
She  was  speaking  truthfully  out  of  her  heart. 

"  Anything  more  ? "  Oliver's  voice  had  lost  its 
buoyancy  now.  The  pipe  was  upside  down,  the 
ashes  falling  on  his  shirt. 

*(  Yes — lots  of  portraits  to  paint." 

"  And  a  medal  at  the  Salon  ?  "  asked  Oliver,  brush 
ing  off  the  waste  of  his  pipe  from  his  coat-sleeve. 

"  Yes,  I  don't  mind,  if  my  pictures  deserve  it,"  and 
she  looked  at  him  quizzically,  \vhile  a  sudden  flash 
of  humor  lightened  up  her  face.  "  "What  would  you 
want,  Mr.  ITappy-go-lucky,  if  you  had  your  wish  ? " 

"I,  Madge,  dear?"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden 
outburst  of  tenderness,  raising  his  body  erect  and 
looking  earnestly  into  her  eyes,  which  were  now 
within  a  hand's  breadth  of  his  own.  She  winced  a 
little,  but  it  did  not  offend  her,  nor  did  she  move  an 
inch.  "  Oh,  I  don't'  know  what  I  want.  "What  I 
want,  I  suppose,  is  what  I  shall  never  have,  little 
girl" 

She  wasn't  his  little  girl,  or  anybody  else's,  she 
thought  to  herself — she  was  firmly  convinced  of  that 

293 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

fact.  It  was  only  one  of  his  terms  of  endearment. 
He  had  them  for  everybody — even  for  Hank  and 
for  Mrs.  Taft — whom  he  called  "  Taffy,"  and  who 
loved  to  hear  him  say  it,  and  she  old  enough  to  be 
his  grandmother!  She  stole  a  look  into  his  face. 
There  was  a  cloud  over  it,  a  slight  knitting  of  the 
brows,  and  a  pained  expression  about  the  mouth 
that  were  new  to  her. 

"  I'd  like  to  be  a  painter,"  he  continued,  "  but 
mother  would  never  consent."  As  he  spoke,  he 
sank  back  from  her  slowly,  his  knees  still  bent 
under  him.  Then  he  added,  with  a  sigh,  "  She 
wouldn't  think  it  respectable.  Anything  but  a 
painter,  she  says." 

Margaret  looked  out  through  the  forest  and 
watched  a  woodpecker  at  work  on  the  dry  side  of 
a  hollow  trunk,  the  side  protected  from  the  driving 
rain. 

"  And  you  would  give  up  your  career  because  she 
wants  it?  How  do  you  know  she's  right  about  it? 
And  who's  to  suffer  if  she's  wrong?  .  Be  a  painter, 
Oliver,  if  you  want  to!  Your  mother  can't  coddle 
you  up  forever!  No  mother  should.  Do  what  you 
can  do  best,  and  to  please  yourself,  not  somebody 
else,"  and  then  she  laughed  lightly  as  if  to  break  the 
force  of  her  words. 

Oliver  looked  at  her  in  indignation  that  anyone- 
even  Margaret — should  speak  so  of  his  mother, 

294 


OTDEK  A  BAKK    SLANT 

It  was  the  first  time  in  all  his  life  that  he  had  heard 
her  name  mentioned  without  the  profound  reverence 
it  deserved.  Then  a  sense  of  the  injustice  of  her 
words  took  possession  of  him,  as  the  solemn  com 
pact  he  had  made  with  his  mother  not  to  be  a  bur 
den  on  her  while  the  mortgage  was  unpaid,  rose  in 
his  mind.  This  thought  and  Margaret's  laugh  soft 
ened  any  hurt  her  words  had  given  him,  although 
the  lesson  that  they  were  intended  to  teach  lingered 
in  his  memory  for  many  days  thereafter. 

4"  You  would  not  talk  that  way,  Madge,  if  you 
knew  my  dear  mother,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  There  13 
nothing  in  her  life  she  loves  better  than  me.  She 
doesn't  want  me  to  be  a  painter  because — "  He 
stopped,  fearing  she  might  not  understand  his 
answer. 

"Go  on — why  not?"  The  laugh  had  faded  out 
of  her  voice  now,  and  a  tone  almost  of  defiance  had 
taken  its  place. 

"  She  says  it  is  not  the  profession  of  a  gentle-, 
man,"  he  answered,  sadly.  "  I  do  not  agree  with* 
her,  but  she  thinks  so,  and  nothing  can  shake  her." 

"  If  those  are  her  opinions,  I  wonder  what  she 
would  think  of  me  ?  r>  There  was  a  slight  irritation  in 
her  voice — somehow  she  always  became  irritable 
when  Oliver  spoke  of  his  mother.  She  was  ashamed 
of  it,  but  it  was  true. 

All  Ms  anger  was  gone  now.     Whatever  opinion 


THE  FOKTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

the  world  might  have  on  any  number  of  things  there 
could  be  but  one  opinion  of  Madge.  "  She  would 
love  you,  little  girl,"  he  burst  out  as  he  laid  his  hand 
on  her  arm — the  first  time  he  had  ever  touched  her 
with  any  show  of  affection.  "  You'd  make  her  love 
you.  She  never  saw  anybody  like  you  before,  and 
she  never  will.  That  you  are  an  artist  wouldn't 
make  any  difference.  It's  not  the  sam.e  with  you. 
You're  a  woman." 

The  girl's  eyes  again  sought  the  woodpecker.  It 
was  stabbing  away  with  all  its  might,  driving  its 
beak  far  into  the  yielding  bark.  It  seemed  in  some 
way  to  represent  her  own  mood.  After  a  moment's 
thought  she  said  thoughtfully  as  she  rested  her  head 
on  the  edge  of  the  slant: 

"  Ollie,  what  is  a  gentleman?  "  She  knew,  she 
thought,  but  she  wanted  him  to  define  it. 

"  My  father  is  one,"  he  said,  positively,  " — and 
so  is  yours,"  and  he  looked  inquiringly  into  her  face. 

"  That  depends  on  your  standard.  I  don't  know 
your  father,  but  I  do  mine,  and  from  what  you  have 
told  me  about  yours  I  think  they  are  about  as  differ 
ent  as  two  men  can  be.  Answer  my  question — what 
is  a  gentleman  ?  "  She  was  leaning  over  a  little,  and 
tucking  a  chip  under  her  toes  to  keep  the  water  away 
from  her  shoes.  Her  eyes  sought  his  again. 

"  A  gentleman,  Madge — why,  you  know  what  a 
gentleman  is.  He  is  a  man  well  born,  well  edu- 

296 


TINDER  A  BX\RK  SLANT 

cated,  and  well  bred.  That's  the  standard  at  home 
— at  least,  that's  niv  mother's.  Father's  standard  is 

it 

the  same,  only  he  puts  it  in  a  different  way.  He 
says  a  gentleman  is  a  man  who  tolerates  other  peo- 
'  pie's  mistakes  and  who  sympathizes  with  other  peo 
ple's  troubles." 

"  Anything  else  ? "  She  was  searching  his  face 
now.  There  were  some  things  she  wanted  to  settle 
in  her  own  mind. 

"  I  don't  think  of  anything  else,  Madge,  dear — do 
you  ?  "  He  was  really  dismissing  the  question.  His 
thoughts  were  on  something  else — the  way  her  hair 
curled  from  under  her  worsted  cap  and  the  way  her 
pink  ears  nestled  close  to  her  head,  especially  the  lit 
tle  indents  at  each  corner  of  her  mouth.  He  liked 
their  modelling. 

"  And  so  according  to  your  mother's  and  father's 
ideas,  and  those  of  all  your  aristocratic  people  at 
home,  Hank  here  could  not  be  a  gentleman  if  he 
tried?" 

The  idea  was  new  to  Oliver.  He  had  become  con 
scious  now.  What  had  gotten  into  Margaret  to-day? 

"Hank? — no,  certainly  not.     How  could  he?" 

"  By  being  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Aristocrat.  "Not  in 
clothes,  mind  you — nor  money,  nor  furniture,  nor 
wines,  nor  carriages,  but  in  heart.  Think  a  moment, 
Ollie,"  and  her  eyes  snapped.  "  Hank  finds  a  robin 
that  has  tumbled  out  of  its  nest,  and  spends  half  a 

297 


THE  FOETUSES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

putting  it  back.  Hank  follows  you  up  the  brook  and 
sees  you  try  to  throw  a  fly  into  a  pool,  and  he  knows 
just  how  awkwardly  you  do  it,  for  he's  the  best  fisher 
man  in  the  woods — and  yet  you  never  see  a  smile 
cross  his  face,  nor  does  he  ever  speak  of  it  behind 
your  back — not  even  to  me.  Hank  walks  across 
Moose  Hillock  to  find  old  Jonathan  Gordon  to  tell 
him  he  has  some  big  trout  in  Loon  Pond,  so  that 
the  old  man  can  have  the  fun  of  catching  them  and 
selling  them  afterward  to  the  new  hotel  in  the  Notch. 
He  has  walked  twenty-four  miles  when  he  gets  back. 
Do  these  things  make  Hank  a  gentleman,  or  not  ? " 

"  Then  you  don't  believe  in  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
Miss  Democrat,  simply  because  he  was  a  lord?" 

"  Yes — but  I  always  thought  he  wore  his  old  cloak 
that  day  on  purpose,  so  he  could  be  made  an  earl." 
And  a  ripple  of  laughter  escaped  her  lips. 

Oliver  laughed  too,  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  held 
out  his  hands  so  as  to  lift  her  up.  None  of  these 
fine-drawn  distinctions  really  interested  him — cer 
tainly  not  on  this  day,  when  he  was  so  happy.  Why, 
he  wondered,  should  she  want  to  discuss  theories  and 
beliefs  and  creeds,  with  the  beautiful  forest  all  about 
and  the  sky  breaking  overhead? 

"  Well,  you've  walked  over  mine  many  a  time,  Miss 
Queen  Elizabeth,  and  you  haven't  decorated  me  yet, 
nor  made  me  an  earl  nor  anything  else  for  it,  and 
Fin  not  going  to  forgive  you  either,"  and  he 


UNDER   A   BARK    SLANT 

rose  to  his  feet.  "  Look!  Madge,  look!  "  he  cried, 
and  sprang  out  into  the  path,  pointing  to  the  sun 
shine  bursting  through  the  trees — the  storm  had 
passed  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come.  "  Isn't  it  glori 
ous!  Come  here  quick!  Don't  wait  a  minute.  I 
should  try  to  get  that  with  Naples  yellow  and  a  little 
chrome — what  do  you  think? "  he  asked  when  she 
stood  beside  him,  half  closing  his  eyes,  to  get  the 
effect  the  better. 

Margaret  looked  at  him  curiously  for  a  moment. 
She  did  not  answer.  "  I  cannot  fasten  his  mind  on 
anything  in  which  I  am  interested,"  she  said  to  her 
self,  with  a  sigh,  "  nor  shall  I  ever  overcome  these 
prejudices  which  seem  to  be  part  of  his  very  life." 

She  paused  a  moment  and  an  expression  of  pain 
passed  over  her  face. 

"  Pale  cadmium  would  be  better,"  she  said,  quiet 
ly,  with  a  touch  of  indifference  in  her  tone,  and  led 
the  way  out  of  the  forest  to  the  main  road. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MRS.   TAFT'S    FRONT   PORCH 

The  autumn  fires  were  being  kindled  on  the  moun 
tains — fires  of  maple,  oak,  and  birch.  Along  the 
leaf-strewn  roads  the  sumach  blazed  scarlet,  and 
over  the  rude  stone  fences  blood-red  lines  of  fire  fol 
lowed  the  trend  of  leaf  and  vine.  Golden  pump 
kins  lay  in  the  furrows  of  the  corn ;  showers  of  apples 
carpeted  the  grass  of  the  orchards;  the  crows  flew 
in  straight  lines,  and  the  busy  squirrels  worked 
from  dawn  till  dark. 

Over  all  settled  the  requiem  haze  of  the  dead 
summer,  blurring  the  Notch  and  softening  Moose 
Hillock  to  a  film  of  gray  against  the  pale  sky. 

It  had  been  a  summer  of  very  great  sweetness  and 
charm — the  happiest  of  Oliver's  life.  He  had  found 
that  he  could  do  fairly  well  the  things  that  he  liked 
to  do  best;  that  the  technical  difficulties  that  had  con 
fronted  him  when  he  began  to  paint  were  being  sur 
mounted  as  the  weeks  went  by,  and  that  the  thing 
that  had  always  been  a  pain  to  him  had  now  become 
a  pleasure — pain,  because,  try  as  he  might,  the  qual 
ity  of  the  result  was  always  below  his  hopes;  a  pleas- 

300 


MRS.  TAFT'S  FRONT  PORCH 

lire,  because  some  bit  of  bark,  perhaps,  or  glint  of 
light  on  moss-covered  rock,  or  tender  vista  had  at 
last  stood  out  on  his  canvas  with  every  tone  of  color 
true. 

Only  a  painter  can  understand  what  all  this  meant 
to  Oliver;  only  an  out-of-door  painter,  really.  The 
"  studio-man  "  who  reproduces  an  old  study  which 
years  before  has  inspired  him,  or  who  evolves  a  com 
position  from  his  inner  consciousness,  has  no  such 
thrills  over  his  work.  He  may,  perhaps,  have  other 
sensations,  but  they  will  lack  the  spontaneous  out 
burst  of  enthusiasm  over  the  old  sketch. 

And  how  glorious  are  the  memories  1 

The  victorious  painter  has  been  weeks  ovev  ehese 
same  trees  that  have  baffled  him;  he  has  painted  them 
on  gray  days  and  sunny  days;  in  the  morning,  at 
noon,  and  in  the  gloaming.  He  has  loved  their 
texture  and  the  thousand  little  lights  and  darks;  the 
sparkle  of  the  black,  green,  or  gray  moss,  and  the 
delicate  tones  that  played  up  and  down  their  stal 
wart  trunks.  He  has  toiled  in  the  heat  of  the  day, 
his  nerves  on  edge,  and  sometimes  great  drops  of 
sweat  on  his  troubled  forehead.  Now  and  then  he 
has  sprung  from  his  seat  for  a  farther-away  look  at 
his  sketch.  "With  a  sigh  and  a  heart  bowed  down 
(oh,  how  desolate  are  these  hours!)  he  has  noted  how 
wooden  and  commonplace  and  mean  and  despicable 
his  work  was — what  an  insult  he  has  cast  upon  the 

301 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

beautiful  yellow  birch,  this  outdoor,  motionless,  old 
model  that  has  stood  so  patiently  before  him,  posing 
all  day  without  moving;  its  big  arms  above  its  head; 
its  leaves  and  branches  stock-still  to  make  it  all  the 
easier  for  him. 

Suddenly  in  all  this  depression,  an  inspiration  has 
entered  his  dull  brain — he  will  use  burnt  umber  in 
stead  of  Vandyke  brown  for  the  bark!  or  light 
chrome  and  indigo  instead  of  yellow  ochre  and  black 
for  the  green! 

Presto!  Ah,  that's  like  it!  Another  pat,  and 
another,  and  still  one  more ! 

How  quickly  now  the  canvas  loses  its  pasty  medi 
ocrity.  How  soon  the  paint  and  the  brush-marks 
and  the  niggly  little  touches  fade  away  and  the  thing 
itself  comes  out  and  says  "  How  do  you  do  ?  "  and 
that  it  is  so  glad  to  see  him,  and  that  it  has  been 
lurking  behind  these  colors  all  day,  trying  to  make 
his  acquaintance,  and  he  would  have  none  of  it. 
What  good  friends  he  and  the  sketch  have  become 
now;  how  proud  he  is  of  it,  and  of  possessing  it  and 
of  creating  it !  Then  little  quivery-quavers  go  creep 
ing  up  and  down  his  spine  and  away  out  to  his  finger 
tips;  and  he  Jcnoivs  that  he  has  something  really  good. 

He  carries  it  home  in  his  hand,  oh,  so  carefully  (he 
strapped  its  predecessor  on  his  back  yesterday  with 
out  caring),  and  a  dozen  times  he  stops  to  look  at 
its  dear  face,  propping  it  against  a  stump  for  a  better 

302 


MRS.  TAFT'S  FROST  PORCH 

light,  just  to  see  if  he  had  not  been  mistaken  after 
all.  He  can  hardly  wait  until  it  is  dark  enough  to 
see  how  it  looks  by  gas-light,  or  candle-light,  or  kero 
sene,  or  whatever  else  he  may  have  in  his  quarters. 
Years  after,  the  dear  old  thing  is  still  hanging  on  hi? 
studio  wall.  He  has  never  sold  it  nor  given  it  away. 
He  could  not — it  was  too  valuable,  too  constantly 
giving  him  good  advice  and  showing  him  what  the 
thing  was.  Not  what  he  thought  it  was,  or  hoped  it 
was,  or  would  like  it  to  be,  but  what  it  was. 

Yes,  there  may  be  triumphs  that  come  to  men 
digging  away  on  the  dull  highway  of  life — triumphs 
in  business;  in  politics;  in  discovery;  in  law;  medi 
cine,  and  science.  To  each  and  every  profession  and 
pursuit  there  must  come,  and  does  come,  a  time  when 
a  rush  of  uncontrollable  feeling  surges  through  the 
victor's  soul,  crowning  long  hours  of  work,  but  they 
are  as  dry  ashes  to  a  thirsty  man  compared  to  the 
boundless  ecstasy  a  painter  feels  when,  with  a  be- 
caked  palette,  some  half-dried  tubes  of  color,  and  a 
few  worn-out,  ragged  brushes,  he  compels  a  six-by- 
nine  canvas  to  glow  with  life  and  truth. 

All  this  Oliver  knew  and  felt.  The  work  of  the 
summer,  attended  at  first  with  a  certain  sense  of  dis 
appointment,  had,  during  the  last  few  weeks  of  so 
journ,  as  his  touch  grew  surer,  not  only  become  a 
positive  pleasure  to  him,  but  had  produced  an  exal 
tation  that  had  kept  our  young  gentleman  walking 

303 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

on  clouds  most  of  the  time,  his  head  in  the  blue 
ether. 

Margaret's  nice  sense  of  color  and  correct  eye  had 
hastened  this  result.  She  could  grasp  at  the  first 
glance  the  masses  of  light  and  shade,  giving  each  its 
proper  value  in  the  composition.  She  and  Oliver 
really  studied  out  their  compositions  together  before 
either  one  set  a  palette,  a  most  desirable  practice,  by 
the  way,  not  only  for  tyros,  but  for  Academicians. 

This  relying  upon  Margaret's  judgment  had  be 
come  a  habit  with*  Oliver.  He  not  only  consulted 
her  about  his  canvases,  but  about  everything  else  that 
concerned  him.  He  had  never  formulated  in  his 
mind  what  this  kind  of  companionship  meant  to  him 
(we  never  do  when  we  are  in  the  midst  of  it),  nor 
had  he  ever  considered  what  would  become  of  him 
when  the  summer  was  over,  and  the  dream  would 
end,  and  they  each  would  return  to  the  customary 
dulness  of  life;  a  life  where  there  would  be  no  blue 
ether  nor  clouds,  nor  vanishing  points,  nor  values, 
nor  tones,  nor  anything  else  that  had  made  their 
heaven  of  a  summer  so  happy. 

They  had  both  lived  in  this  paradise  for  weeks 
without  once  bringing  themselves  to  believe  it  could 
ever  end  (why  do  not  such  episodes  last  forever?) 
when  Oliver  awoke  one  morning  to  the  fact  that 
the  fatal  day  of  their  separation  would  be  upon  him 
in  a  week's  time  or  less.  Margaret,  with  her  more 

304 


MRS.  TAFT'S  FRONT  PORCH 

practical  mind,  had  seen  farther  ahead  than  Oliver^ 
and  her  laugh,  in  consequence,  had  been  less  spon 
taneous  of  late,  and  her  interest  in  her  work  and  in 
Oliver's  less  intense.  She  was  overpowered  by  an 
other  sensation;  she  had  been  thinking  of  the  day, 
now  so  near,  when  the  old  stage  would  drive  up  to 
Mrs.  Taft's  pasture-gate,  and  her  small  trunk  and 
trap  would  be  carried  down  on  Hank's  back  and  tum 
bled  in,  and  she  would  go  back  alone  to  duty  and  the 
prosaic  life  of  a  New  England  village. 

Neither  of  them  supposed  that  it  was  anything  else 
but  the  grief  of  parting  that  afflicted  them,  until  there 
came  a  memorable  autumn  night — a  night  that  some 
times  comes  to  the  blessed! — when  the  moon  swam 
in  the  wide  sky,  breasting  the  soft  white  clouds,  and 
when  Oliver  and  Margaret  sat  together  on  the  porch 
of  Mrs.  Taft's  cottage — he  on  the  steps  at  her  feet, 
she  leaning  against  the  railing,  the  moonlight  full 
upon  her  face. 

They  had  been  there  since  sunset.  They  had 
known  all  day  what  was  in  each  other's  mind,  but 
they  had  avoided  discussing  it.  Now  they  must 
face  it. 

"  You  go  to-morrow,  Madge  ?  "  Oliver  asked.  He 
knew  she  did.  He  spoke  as  if  announcing  a  fact. 

"  Yes." 

The  shrill  cry  of  a  loon,  like  the  cry  of  a  child  in 
pain,  sifted  down  the  ravine  from  the  lake  above 

305 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

and  died  away  among  the  pines  soughing  in  the  night- 
wind.  Oliver  paused  for  a  moment  to  listen,  and 
went  on: 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  go.     I  don't  know  what  I 
am  going  to  do  without  you,  Madge/'  he  said  wit ' 
a  long  indrawn  sigh. 

"  You  are  coming  to  us  at  Brookfield,  you  know, 
on  your  way  back  to  New  York.  That  is  some 
thing."  She  glanced  at  him  with  a  slightly  anxious 
look  in  her  eyes,  as  if  waiting  for  his  answer  to  re 
assure  her. 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  began  pacing  the  gravel. 
"Now  and  then  he  would  stop,  flick  a  pebble  from  its 
bed  with  his  foot,  and  walk  on.  She  heard  the  sound 
of  his  steps,  but  she  did  not  look  at  him,  even  when 
he  stopped  abruptly  in  front  of  her. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but — that  will  only  make  it  worse." 
He  was  leaning  over  her  now,  one  foot  on  the  steps. 
"  It  tears  me  all  to  pieces  when  I  think  this  is  our 
last  night.  We've  had  such  a  good  time  all  sum 
mer.  You  don't  want  to  go  home,  do  you?  " 

"  No — I'd  rather  stay."  The  words  came  slowly, 
as  if  it  gave  her  pain  to  utter  them. 

"  Well — stay,  then,"  he  answered  with  some  ani 
mation.  "What  difference  does  a  few  days  make! 
Let  us  have  another  week.  We  haven't  been  oyef 
to  Bog  Eddy  yet;  please  stay,  Madge." 

"  No,  I  must  go,  Ollie." 
306 


MRS.  TAFT'S  FRONT  PORCH 

"  But  we'll  be  so  happy,  little  girl." 

"  Life  is  not  only  being  happy,  Ollie.  It's  very 
real  sometimes.  It  is  to  me —  '  and  a  faint  sigh 
escaped  her. 

"  "Well,  but  why  make  it  real  to-morrow  ?  Let  us 
make  it  real  next  week,  not  now." 

"  It  would  be  just  as  hard  for  you  next  week. 
Why  postpone  it?  "  She  was  looking  at  him  now, 
watching  his  face  closely. 

Her  answer  seemed  to  hurt  him.  With  an  impa 
tient  gesture  he  straightened  himself,  turned  as  if 
to  resume  his  walk,  and  then,  pushing  away  the  end 
of  her  skirt,  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  I  don't  understand  your  theories,  Madge,  and 
I'm  not  going  to  discuss  them.  I  don't  want  to  talk 
of  any  such  things;  I'm  too  unhappy  to-night.  When 
I  look  ahead  and  think  that  if  the  Academy  should 
not  open,  you  wouldn't  come  back  at  all,  and  that  I 
might  not  see  you  for  months,  I'm  all  broken 
up.  What  am  I  going  to  do  without  you,  Madge?  " 
His  voice  was  quivering,  and  a  note  of  pain  ran 
through  it. 

"  Oh,  you  will  have  your  work — you'll  do  just 
what  you  did  before  I  came  up."  She  was  holding 
herself  in  by  main  strength;  why,  she  could  not  tell 
' — fighting  an  almost  irresistible  impulse  to  hide  her 
face  on  his  breast  and  cry. 

"  What  good  \rill  that  do  me  when  you  are  gone  ?  " 
307 


THE  FORTUNES  OE  OLIVER  HORN 

he  burst  out,  with  a  quick  toss  of  his  head  and  a  cer 
tain  bitterness  in  his  tone. 

"  Well,  but  you  were  very  happy  before  you  saw 
me." 

Again  the  cry  of  the  loon  came  down  the  ravine. 
He  turned  and  with  one  of  his  quick,  impatient  gest- 
uref  that  she  knew  so  well,  put  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"  Stop,  Madge,  stop!  Don't  talk  that  way.  I 
can't  stand  it.  Look  at  me!  "  The  pain  had  be 
come  unbearable  now.  "  You've  got  to  listen.  I 
can't  keep  it  back,  and  I  won't.  I  never  met  any 
body  that  I  loved  as  I  do  you.  I  didn't  think  so  at 
first.  I  never  thought  I  could  think  so,  but  it's  true. 
You  are  not  my  sweetheart  nor  my  friend,  nor  my 
companion,  nor  anything  else  that  ever  came  into 
my  life.  You  are  my  very  breath,  my  soul,  my  be 
ing.  I  never  want  you  to  leave  me.  I  should  never 
have  another  happy  day  if  I  thought  this  was  to  end 
our  life.  I  laid  awake  half  the  night  trying  to 
straighten  it  out,  and  I  can't,  and  there's  no  straight 
ening  it  out  and  never  will  be  unless  you  love  me. 
Oh,  Madge!  Madge!  Don't  turn  away  from  me. 
Let  me  be  part  of  you — part  of  everything  you  do 
— and  are — and  will  be." 

He  caught  her  hand  in  his  warm  palm  and  laid  his 
cheek  upon  it.  Still  holding  it  fast  he  raised  his 
head,  laid  his  other  hand  upon  her  hair,  smoothing 

308 


MRS.  TAFT'S  FROXT  PORCH 

it  softly,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly  into  her 
eyes  as  if  searching  for  something  hidden  in  their 
depths.  Then,  in  a  voice  of  infinite  tenderness,  he 
said: 

"  Madge,  darling!  Tell  me  true — could  you  ever 
love  me  ?  " 

She  sat  still,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his,  her  hand 
nestling  in  his  grasp.  Then  slowly  and  carefully, 
one  at  a  time,  she  loosened  with  her  other  hand  the 
fingers  that  lay  upon  her  hair,  held  them  for  an  in 
stant  in  her  own,  bent  her  head  and  touched  them 
with  her  lips. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

SOME    DAYS    AT    BEOOKFIELD    FARM 

Brookfield  village  lay  in  a  great  wide  meadow 
through  which  strayed  one  of  Moose  Hillock's  lost 

O  •/    , 

brooks — a  brook  tired  out  with  leaping  from  bowlder 
to  bowlder  and  taking  headers  into  deep  pools,  and 
plunging  down  between  narrow  walls  of  rock.  Here 
in  the  meadow  it  caught  its  breath  and  rested, 
idling  along,  stopping  to  bathe  a  clump  of  willows; 
whispering  to  the  shallows;  laughing  gently  with 
another  brook  that  had  locked  arms  with  it,  the 
two  gossiping  together  under  their  breath  as  they 
floated  on  through  the  tall  grasses  fringing  the 
banks,  or  circled  about  the  lily-pads  growing  in  the 
eddies.  In  the  middle  of  the  meadow,  just  where 
two  white  ribbons  of  roads  crossed,  was  a  clump  of 
trees  pierced  by  a  church-spire.  Outside  of  this  bower 
of  green — a  darker  green  than  the  velvet  meadow- 
grass  about  it — glistened  the  roofs  and  windows  of 
the  village  houses. 

All  this  Oliver  saw,  at  a  distance,  from  the  top  of 
the  stage. 

As  he  drew  nearer  and  entered  the  main  street,, 
31C 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BROOKFIELD  FARM 

the  clump  of  trees  became  giant  elms,  their  interlaced 
branches  making  shaded  cloisters  of  the  village 
.streets.  The  buildings  now  became  more  distinct^ 
iirst  a  tavern  with  a  swinging  sign,  and  across  the 
•open  common  a  quaint  church  with  a  white  tower. 

At  the  end  of  the  avenue  of  trees,  under  the  big- 
gest  of  the  elms,  stood  an  old-fashioned  farmhouse, 
its  garden-gate  opening  on  the  highway,  and  its  broad 
acres — one  hundred  or  more — reaching  to  the  line 
of  frhe  vagabond  brook. 

This  was  Margaret's  home. 

The  stage  stopped;  the  hair-trunk  and  sketch-trap 
were  hauled  out  of  the  dust-begrimed  boot  and  de 
posited  on  the  sidewralk  at  the  foot  of  the  giant  elm 
Oliver  swung  back  the  gate  and  walked  up  the  patk 
in  the  direction  of  the  low-roofed  porch,  upon  which 
lay  a  dog,  which  raised  its  head  and  at  the  first  click 
of  the  latch  came  bounding  toward  him,  barking  with 
•every  leap. 

"  Xeedn't  be  afraid,  she  won't  hurt  you!  "  shouted 
#  gray-haired  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  who  had  risen 
from  his  seat  on  the  porch  and  who  was  now  walking 
down  the  garden-path.  "  Get  out,  Juno !  I  guess 
you're  the  young  man  that's  been  painting  with  our 
Margaret  up  in  the  Gorge.  She's  been  expecting 
you  all  morning.  Little  dusty,  warn't  it  ?  " 

Oliver's  face  brightened  up.  This  must  be  Mar 
garet's  father! 

311 


THE  EORTUKES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  Mr.  Grant,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  what  they  call  me — Silas  Grant.  Let 
me  take  your  bag.  My  son  John  will  be  here  in  a 
minute,  and  will  help  you  in  with  your  trunk, 
Needn't  worry,  it's  all  right  where  it  is.  Folks  are 
middling  honest  about  here,"  he  added,  with  a  dry 
laugh,  and  his  hand  closed  on  his  guest's — a  cold, 
limp,  dead-fish  sort  of  a  hand,  Oliver  thought. 

Oliver  said  he  was  sure  of  it,  and  that  he  hoped 
Miss  Margaret  was  well,  and  the  old  man  said  she 
was,  "  Thank  you,"  and  Oliver  surrendered  the  bag 
• — it  was  his  sketch-trap — and  the  two  walked  toward 
the  house.  During  the  mutual  greetings  the  dog 
sniffed  at  Oliver's  knees  and  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"  And  I  suppose  this  is  Juno,"  our  hero  said,  stop 
ping  to  pat  her  head.  "  Good  dog — you  don't  re 
member  me  ?  "  It  seemed  easier  somehow  to  con 
verse  with  Juno  than  with  her  master.  The  dog 
wagged  her  tail,  but  gave  no  indications  of  uncon 
trollable  joy  at  meeting  her  rescuer  again. 

"  Oh,  you've  seen  her?  She's  Margaret's  dog,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  she's  forgotten  me.  I  saw  her 
before  I  ever  knew — your  daughter."  It  was  a  nar 
row  escape,  but  he  saved  himself  in  time.  "  Blessed 
old  dog,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  patted  her  again. 

By  the  time  he  had  reached  the  porch-steps  he  had 
made,  unconsciously  to  himself,  a  mental  inventory 

31? 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BROOKFIELD  FARM 

of  his  host's  special  features :  tall,  sparsely  built,  with 
stooping  shoulders  and  long  arms,  the  big  hands  full 
of  cold  knuckles  with  rough  finger-tips  (Oliver  found 
that  out  when  his  own  warm  fingers  closed  over 
them);  thin  face,  with  high  cheek-bones  showing 
above  his  closely-cropped  beard  and  whiskers;  gray 
eyes — steady,  steel-gray  eyes,  hooded  by  white  eye 
brows  stuck  on  like  two  tufts  of  cotton-wool;  nose 
big  and  strong;  square  jaw  hanging  on  a  hinge  that 
opened  and  shut  with  each  sentence,  the  upper  part 
of  jtlie  face  remaining  motionless  as  a  mask.  Oliver 
remembered  having  once  seen  a  toy  ogre  with  a  jaw 
and  face  that  worked  in  the  same  way.  He  had 
caught,  too,  the  bend  of  his  thin  legs,  the  hump  of 
tne  high  shoulders,  and  saw  the  brown  skin  of  the 
neck  showing  through  the  close-cut  white  hair.  Sud 
denly  a  feeling  of  repugnance  amounting  almost  to- 
a  shrinking  dislike  of  the  man  took  possession  of  him 
• — it  is  just  such  trifles  that  turn  the  scales  of  likes 
and  dislikes  for  all  of  us.  "  Could  this  really  be 
Margaret's  father?  "  he  said  to  himself.  Through 
whose  veins,  then,  had  all  her  charm  and  loveliness 
come?  Certainly  not  from  this  cold  man  without 
grace  of  speech  or  polish  of  manner. 

This  feeling  of  repugnance  had  come  with  a  flash, 
and  in  a  flash  it  was  gone.  On  the  top  step  of  the 
low  piazza  stood  a  young  girl  in  white,  a  rose  in  her 
hair,  her  arm  around  a  silver-haired  old  lady  in 

313 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

gray  silk,  with  a  broad  white  handkerchief  crossed! 
over  her  bosom. 

Oliver's  hat  was  off  in  an  instant. 

Margaret  came  down  one  step  to  greet  him  and 
held  out  both  her  hands.  "  Oh,  we  are  so  glad  to 
welcome  you!  "  Then  turning  to  her  companion 
she  said :  "  Mother,  this  is  Mr.  Horn,  who  has  been 
so  good  to  me  all  summer." 

The  old  lady — she  was  very  deaf — cupped  one 
hand  behind  her  ear,  and  with  a  gracious  smile  ex 
tended  the  other  to  Oliver. 

"  I  am  so  pleased  you  came,  sir,  and  I  want  to 
thank  you  for  being  so  kind  to  our  daughter.  Her 
brother  John  could  not  go  with  her,  and  husband 
and  I  are  most  too  old  to  leave  home  now."  The 
voice  was  as  sweet  and  musical  as  a  child's,  not  the 
high-keyed,  strained  tone  of  most  deaf  people.  When 
they  all  stood  on  the  porch  level  Margaret  touched 
Oliver's  arm. 

"  Speak  slowly  and  distinctly,  Ollie,"  she  whis 
pered,  "  then  mother  can  hear  you." 

Oliver  smiled  in  assent,  took  the  old  lady's  thin 
fingers,  and  with  a  cordiality  the  more  pronounced 
because  of  a  certain  guilty  sense  he  had  for  his  feel 
ing  of  repugnance  to  her  father,  said: 

"  Oh,  but  think  what  a  delight  it  was  for  me  to  be 
with  her.  Every  day  we  painted  together,  and  you 
can't  imagine  how  much  she  taught  me;  you 

314 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BROOKFIELD  FARM 

there  is  nobody  in  the  Academy  class  who  draws  as 
well  as  your  daughter."  A  light  broke  in  Margaret's 
eyes  at  this,  but  she  let  him  go  on.  "  She  has  told 
you,  of  course,  of  all  the  good  times  we  have  had 
while  we  were  at  work  "  (Margaret  had,  but  not  all 
of  them).  "  It  is  I  who  should  thank  you,  not  only 
for  letting  Miss  Margaret  stay  so  long,  but  for  want- 
•  ing  me  to  come  to  you  here  in  your  beautiful  home. 
It  is  my  first  visit  to  this — but  you  are  standing,  I 
beg  your  pardon,"  and  he  looked  about  for  a  chair. 

There  was  only  one  chair  on  the  porch — it  was 
undfer  Silas  Grant. 

"  Xo,  don't  disturb  yourself,  Mr.  Horn ;  I  prefer 
standing,"  Mrs.  Grant  answered,  with  a  deprecatory 
gesture  as  if  to  detain  Oliver.  ]STo  one  in  Brookfield 
ever  intruded  on  Silas  Grant's  rights  to  his  chair,  not 
even  his  wife. 

Silas  heard,  but  he  did  not  move ;  he  had  performed 
his  duty  as  host;  it  was  the  women-folk's  turn  now 
to  be  pleasant.  What  he  wanted  was  to  be  let  alone. 
All  this  was  in  his  face,  as  he  sat  hunched  up  be 
tween  the  arms  of  the  splint  rocker. 

Despite  the  old  lady's  protest,  Oliver  made  a  step 
toward  the  seated  man.  His  impulse  was  to  sug 
gest  to  his  host  that  the  lady  whom  he  had  honored 
by  making  his  wife  was  at  the  moment  standing  on 
her  two  little  feet  while  the  lord  of  the  manor  was 
quietly  reposing  upon  the  only  chair  on  the  piazza, 

315 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORX 

a  fact  doubtless  forgotten  by  his  Imperial  High 
ness. 

Mr.  Grant  had  read  at  a  glance  the  workings  of 
the  young  man's  mind,  and  knew  exactly  what  Oliver 
wanted,  but  he  did  not  move.  Something  in  the 
i  bend  of  Oliver's  back  as  he  bowed  to  his  wife  had 
irritated  him.  He  had  rarely  met  Southerners  of 
Oliver's  class — never  one  so  young — and  was  un 
familiar  with  their  ways.  This  one,  he  thought,  had 
evidently  copied  the  airs  of  a  dancing-master;  the 
wave  of  Oliver's  hand — it  was  Richard's  in  reality, 
as  were  all  the  boy's  gestures — and  the  fine  speech 
he  had  just  made  to  his  wife,  proved  it.  Instantly 
the  instinctive  doubt  of  the  Puritan  questioning  the 
sincerity  of  whatever  is  gracious  or  spontaneous,  was 
roused  in  Silas's  mind.  From  that  moment  he  be 
came  suspicious  of  the  boy's  genuineness. 

The  old  lady,  however,  was  still  gazing  into  the 
boy's  face,  unconscious  of  what  either  her  husband 
or  her  guest  was  thinking. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  like  our  mountains,  Mr.  Horn," 
she  continued.  "  Mr.  Lowell  wrote  his  beautiful 
lines,  '  What  is  so  Rare  as  a  Day  in  June,'  in  our  vil 
lage,  and  Mr.  Longfellow  never  lets  a  summer  pass 
without  spending  a  week  with  us.  And  you  had  a 
comfortable  ride  down  the  mountains,  and  were  the 
views  enjoyable?" 

"  Oh,  too  beautiful  for  words!  "  It  was  Marga- 
316 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BROOKFIELD  FARM 

ret  this  time,  not  the  scenery;  he  could  not  take  his 
eyes  from  her,  as  he  caught  the  beauty  of  her  throat 
against  the  soft  white  of  her  dress,  and  the  exquisite 
tint  of  the  October  rose  in  contrast  with  the  autumnal 
browns  of  her  hair.  Never  had  he  dreamed  she 
could  be  so  lovely.  He  could  not  believe  for  one 
moment  that  she  was  the  Margaret  he  had  known; 
any  one  of  the  Margarets,  in  fact.  Certainly  not 
that  one  of  the  Academy  school  in  blue  gingham 
with  her  drawing-board  in  her  lap,  alone,  self -poised, 
and  unapproachable,  among  a  group  of  art-students; 
or  that  other  one  in  a  rough  mountain-skirt,  stout- 
ahoes,  and  a  tam-o'-shanter,  the  gay  and  fearless  com 
panion,  the  comrade,  the  co-worker.  This  Marga 
ret  was  a  vision  in  white,  with  arms  bare  to  the  elbow 
— oh,  such  beautiful  arms !  and  the  grace  and  poise  of 
a  duchess — a  Margaret  to  be  reverenced  as  well  as 
loved — a  woman  to  bend  low  to. 

During  this  episode,  in  wrhich  Silas  sat  studying 
the  various  expressions  that  flitted  across  Oliver's 
face,  Mr.  Grant  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair.  At 
last  his  jaws  closed  with  a  snap,  while  the  two  tufts 
of  cotton-wool,  drawn  together  by  a  frown,  deeper 
than  any  which  had  yet  crossed  his  face,  made  a 
straight  line  of  white.  Oliver's  enthusiastic  outburst 
and  the  gesture  which  accompanied  it  had  removed 
Silas  Grant's  last  doubt.  His  mind  was  now  made  up. 

The  young  fellow,  however,  rattled  on,  oblivious 
317 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

now  of  everything  about  him  but  the  joy  of  Mar 
garet's  presence. 

"  The  view  from  the  bend  of  the  road  was  espe 
cially  fine —  ''  he  burst  forth  again,  his  eyes  still  on 
hers.  "  You  remember,  Miss  Margaret,  your  tell 
ing  me  to  look  out  for  it?"  (he  couldn't  stand  an 
other  minute  of  this  unless  she  joined  in  the  talk). 
"  In  my  own  part  of  the  State  we  have  no  great 
mountains  nor  any  lovely  brooks  full  of  trout.  And 
the  quantity  of  deer  that  are  killed  every  winter 
about  here  quite  astonishes  me.  Why,  Mr.  Pol 
lard's  son  Hank,  so  he  told  me,  shot  fourteen  last 
winter,  and  there  were  over  one  hundred  killed 
around  Moose  Hillock.  You  see,  our  coast  is  flat,,  and 
many  of  the  farms  in  my  section  run  down  to  the 
water.  We  have,  it  is  true,  a  good  deal  of  game,  but 
nothing  like  what  you  kave  here,"  and  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  laughed  lightly  as  if  in  apology  for 
referring  to  such  things  in  view  of  all  the  wealth  of 
t^ie  mountains  about  him. 

"  What  kind  of  game  have  you  got?  "  asked  Mr. 
Grant,  twisting  his  head  and  looking  at  Oliver  from 
under  the  straight  line  of  cotton-wool. 

Oliver  turned  his  head  toward  the  speaker.  "  Oh, 
wild  geese,  and  canvas-back  ducks  and— 

"And  negroes?"  There  was  a  harsh  note. in 
Silas's  voice  which  sounded  like  a  saw  when  it 
clogs  in  a  knot,  but  Oliver  did  not  notice  it.  He 

318 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BKOOKFIELD  FARM 

was  too  happy  to  notice  anything  but  the  girl  beside 
him. 

"  Oh,  yes,  plenty  of  them,"  and  he  threw  back  his 
head,  laughing  this  time  until  every  tooth  flashed 
white. 

"  You  hunt  them,  too,  don't  you?  With  dogs, 
most  of  the  time,  I  hear."  There  was  no  mistaking 
the  bitterness  in  his  voice  now. 

The  boy's  face  sobered  in  an  instant.  He  felt  as 
if  someone  had  shot  at  him  from  behind  a  tree. 

*'  Not  that  I  ever  saw,  sir,"  he  answrered,  quickly 
straightening  himself,  a  peculiar  light  in  his  eyt,s. 
"  We  love  ours." 

"  Love  'em?  Well,  you  don't  treat  'em  as  U  you 
loved  'em." 

Margaret  saw  the  cloud  on  Oliver's  face  and  made 
a  step  toward  her  father. 

"  Mr.  Horn  lives  in  the  city,  father,  and  never 
sees  such  things." 

"  Well,  if  he  does  he  knows  all  about  it.  You 
own  negroes,  don't  you?  "  The  voice  was  louder; 
the  manner  a  trifle  more  insistent.  Oliver  could 
hardly  keep  his  temper.  Only  Margaret's  anxious 
face  held  him  in  check. 

"  !No,  not  now,  sir — my  father  freed  all  of  his." 
The  tones  were  thin  and  cold.  Margaret  had  never 
heard  any  such  sound  before  from  those  lauglung 
lips. 

319 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Silas  Grant  was  leaning  forward  out  of  his  chair. 
The  iron  jaw  was  doing  the  talking  now. 

"Where  are  these  negroes?"  he  persisted. 

"  Two  of  them  are  living  with  us,  sir.  They  are 
in  my  father's  house  now." 

"  Rather  shiftless  kind  of  help,  I  guess.  You've 
got  to  watch  'em  all  the  time,  I  hear.  Steal  every 
thing  they  get  their  hands  on,  don't  they  ?  "  This 
was  said  with  a  dry,  hard  laugh  that  was  meant  to 
be  conciliatory — as  if  he  expected  Oliver  to  agree 
with  him  now  that  he  had  had  his  say. 

Oliver  turned  quickly  toward  his  host's  chair.  For 
a  moment  he  was  so  stunned  arid  hurt  that  he  could 
hardly  trust  himself  to  speak.  He  looked  up  and 
saw  the  expression  of  pain  on  Margaret's  face,  and 
instantly  remembered  where  he  was  and  who  was 
offending  him. 

"  Our  house-servants,  Mr.  Grant,  are  part  of  our 
home,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  determined  voice,  without 
a  trace  of  anger.  "  Old  Malachi,  who  was  my  fa 
ther's  body-servant,  and  who  is  now  our  butler,  is 
as  much  beloved  by  everyone  as  if  he  were  one  of 
the  family.  For  myself,  I  can  never  remember  the 
time  when  I  did  not  love  Malachi." 

Before  her  father  could  answer,  Margaret  had  her 
hand  on  Oliver's  shoulder. 

"  Don't  tell  all  your  good  stories  to  father  now," 
she  said,  with  a  grateful  smile.  "  Wait  until  after 

320 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BROOKFIELD  FARM 

dinner,  when  we  can  all  hear  them.  Come,  Mn 
Horn,  I  know  you  want  to  get  the  dust  out  of  your 
eyes."  Then  in  an  aside,  "  Don't  mind  him,  Ollie. 
It's  only  father's  way,  and  he's  the  dearest  father 
in  the  world  when  you  understand  him,"  and  she 
pressed  his  arm  meaningly  as  they  walked  to  the 
,door. 

Before  they  reached  the  threshold  the  gate  swung 
to  with  a  click,  and  a  young  man  with  a  scythe  slung 
over  his  shoulder  strode  up  the  path.  He  was  in  the 
gari*  of  a  farm-hand;  trousers  tucked  into  his  boots, 
sairt  open  at  the  tllroat,  and  head  covered  by  a 
coarse  straw  hat.  This  shaded  a  good-natured,  sun 
burnt  face,  lighted  by  two  bright  blue  eyes. 

"  Oh,  here  comes  my  brother  John,"  Margaret 
cried.  "  Hurry  up,  John — here's  Mr.  Horn." 

The  young  man  quickened  his  pace,  stopped  long 
enough  to  hang  the  scythe  on  the  porch-rail,  lifted 
his  hat  from  his  head,  and,  running  up  the  short 
flight  of  steps,  held  out  his  hand  cordially  to  Oliver, 
who  advanced  to  meet  him. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Horn.  Madge  has  told  us 
all  about  you.  Excuse  my  rig — we  are  short  of  men 
on  the  farm,  and  I  took  hold.  I'm  glad  of  the 
chance,  for  I  get  precious  little  exercise  since  I  left 
college.  You  came  from  East  Branch  by  morning 
stage,  I  suppose?  Oh,  is  that  your  trunk  dumped 
out  in  the  road?  What  a  duffer  I  was  not  to  know. 

321 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Wait  a  minute — I'll  bring  it  in,"  and  he  sprang  down 
the  steps. 

"  No,  let  me,"  cried  Oliver,  running  after  him. 
He  had  not  thought  of  his  trunk  since  he  had  helped 
stow  it  in  the  boot  outside  Ezra  Pollard's  gate — but 
then  he  had  been  on  his  way  to  Margaret's! 

"  No,  you  won't.  Stay  where  you  are — don't  let 
him  come,  Madge." 

The  two  young  men  raced  down  the  path,  Juno 
scampering  after  them.  John,  who  could  outrun 
any  man  at  Dartmouth,  vaulted  over  the  fence  and 
had  hold  of  the  brass  handle  before  Oliver  could 
open  the  gate. 

"  Fair-play !  "  cried  Oliver,  and  they  each  grasped 
a  handle — either  one  could  have  held  it  out  at  arm's 
length  with  one  hand — and  brought  it  up  the  garden- 
path,  puffing  away  in  pantomime  as  if  it  weighed  a 
ton,  and  into  the  house.  There  they  deposited  it  in 
the  bedroom  that  was  to  be  Oliver's  during  the  two 
days  of  his  visit  at  Erookfield  Farm,  Margaret  clap 
ping  her  hands  in  high  glee,  and  her  mother  holding 
back  the  door  for  them  to  pass  in. 

Silas  Grant  watched  the  young  fellows  until  they 
disappeared  inside  the  door,  lifted  himself  slowly 
from  his  seat  by  his  long  arms,  stretched  himself, 
with  a  yawn,  to  his  full  height,  and  said  aloud  to 
himself  as  he  pushed  his  chair  back  against  the  wall : 

"  His  father's  got  a  negro  for  body-servant,  has 
322 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BROOKFIELD  FARM 

k.\ ,  and  a  negro  for  butler — just  like  'em.  They  all 
want  somebody  to  wait  on  'em." 

At  dinner  Oliver  sat  on  Mrs.  Grant's  right — her 
best  ear,  she  said — Margaret  next,  and  John  opposite. 
The  father  was  at  the  foot,  in  charge  of  the  carving- 
knife. 

During  the  pauses  in  the  talk  Oliver's  eyes  wan 
dered  around  the  room,  falling  on  the  queer  paper 
lining  the  walls — hunting-scenes,  with  red-coated 
fox-hunters  leaping  five-barred  gates;  on  the  side 
board  covered  with  silver,  but  bare  of  a  decanter — • 
only  a  pitcher  filled  with  cider  which  Hopeful  Prime, 
the  servant,  a  woman  of  forty  in  spectacles,  and  who 
took  part  in  the  conversation,  brought  from  the  cel 
lar:  and  finally  on  a  family  portrait  that  hung  above 
the  fireplace.  A  portrait  was  always  a  loadstone  to 
Oliver. 

Mrs.  Grant  had  been  watching  his  glance. 

"  That's  Mr.  Grant's  great-uncle—old  Governor 
Shaw,"  she  said,  with  a  pleased  smile;  "  and  the  next 
one  to  it  is  Margaret's  great-grandmother.  This 
one — "  and  she  turned  partly  in  her  chair  and 
pointed  to  a  face  Oliver  thought  he  had  seen  before, 
where,  he  couldn't  remember — "  is  John  Quincy 
Adams.  He  was  my  father's  most  intimate  friend," 
and  a  triumphant  expression  overspread  her  face. 

Oliver  smiled,  too,  inwardly,  to  himself.  The 
talk,  to  his  great  surprise,  reminded  him  of  Ken.' 

323 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

nedy  Square.  Family  portraits  were  an  inexhaust 
ible  topic  of  conversation  in  most  of  its  homes.  Ht 
had  never  thought  before  that  people  at  the  North 
had  any  ancestors — none  they  were  very  proud  of. 

John  looked  up  and  winked.  "  Great  scheme 
naming  me  after  his  Royal  Highness,"  he  said,  in  an 
undertone.  "  Sure  road  to  the  White  House;  they 
thought  I'd  make  a  good  third." 

Mrs.  Grant  went  on,  not  having  heard  a  word  of 
John's  aside :  "  This  table  you're  eating  from,  once 
belonged  to  Mr.  Adams.  He  gave  it  to  my  father, 
who  often  spent  a  week  at  a  time  with  him  in  the 
White  House." 

"  And  I  wish  he  was  there  now,"  interrupted  Silas 
from  the  foot  of  the  table.  "  He'd  straighten  out 
this  snarl  we're  drifting  into.  Looks  to  me  as  if 
there  would  be  some  powder  burnt  before  this  thing 
is  over.  What  do  your  people  say  about  it?  "  and 
he  nodded  at  Oliver.  He  had  served  the  turkey,  and 
was  now  sharpening  the  carver  for  the  boiled  ham, 
trying  the  edge  with  his  thumb,  as  Shylock  did. 

"  I  haven't  been  at  home  for  some  time,  sir,"  re 
plied  Oliver,  in  a  courteous  tone — he  intended  to  be 
polite  to  the  end — "  and  so  I  cannot  say.  My  fa 
ther's  letters  seem  to  be  very  anxious,  but  mother 
doesn't  think  there'll  be  any  trouble;  at  least  she 
said  so  in  her  last  letter." 

Silas  looked  up  from  under  the  tufts  of  cottou* 
324 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BROOKFIELD  FARM 

wool.  Were  the  mothers  running  the  politics  of  the 
South,  he  wondered? 

"  And  there's  another  thing  you  folks  might  as 
well  remember.  We're  not  going  to  let  you  break 
up  the  Union,  and  we're  not  going  to  pay  you  for 
your  slaves,  either,"  and  he  plunged  the  fork  into 
the  ham  that  the  spectacled  waitress  had  laid  before 
him  and  rose  in  his  chair,  the  knife  poised  in  his 
hand  to  carve  it  the  better. 

"  Mr.  Horn  hasn't  got  any  slaves  to  sell,  father — 
didn't  you  hear  him  say  so?  His  father  freed  his/* 
laughed  Margaret.  Her  father's  positiveness  never 
really  worried  her.  She  rather  liked  it  at  times.  It 
was  only  because  she  had  read  in  Oliver's  face  the 
impression  her  father  was  making  upon  him  that  she 
essayed  to  soften  the  force  of  his  remarks. 

"  I  heard  him,  Margaret,  I  heard  him.  Glad  of 
it — but  he's  the  only  man  from  his  parts  that  I  ever 
heard  who  did.  The  others  won't  give  'em  up  so 
easy.  They  hung  John  Brown  for  trying  to  help 
the  negroes  free  themselves,  don't  forget  that." 
Oliver  looked  up  and  knitted  his  brows.  Silas  saw 
it.  "  I'm  not  meaning  any  offence  to  you,  young 
man,"  he  said  quickly,  waving  the  knife  toward 
Oliver.  "  I'm  taking  this  question  on  broad  grounds. 
If  I  had  my  way  I'd  teach  those  slave-drivers —  "  and 
he  buried  the'  knife  in  the  yielding  ham,  "  that " 

"  They  did  just  right  to  hang  him,"  interrupted 
325 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

John.  "  Brown  was  a  fanatic,  and  ought  to  liava 
stayed  at  home.  !N"o  one  is  stronger  than  the  law. 
That's  where  old  Ossawatomie  Brown  made  a  mis 
take."  Everybody  was  entitled  to  express  his  or  her 
opinion  in  this  house  except  the  dear  old  mother. 
Margaret's  fearless  independence  of  manner  and 
thought  had  been  nurtured  in  fertile  soil. 

Mrs.  Grant  had  been -vainly  trying  to  get  the  drift 
of  the  conversation,  her  hand  behind  her  ear. 

"  Parson  Brown,  did  you  say,  John  ?  He  mar 
ried  us,  sir,"  and  she  turned  to  Oliver.  "  He  lived 
here  over  forty  years.  The  church  that  you  passed 
«ras  where  he  preached." 

John  laughed,  and  so  did  Silas,  at  the  old  lady's 
mistake,  but  Oliver  only  became  the  more  attentive 
to  his  hostess.  He  was  profoundly  grateful  to  the 
reverend  gentleman  for  coming  out  of  his  grave  at 
this  opportune  moment  and  diverting  the  talk  into 
other  channels.  Why  did  they  want  to  bother  him 
with  all  this  talk  about  slavery  and  the  South,  when 
he  was  so  happy  he  could  hardly  stay  in  his  skin  ?  It 
eet  his  teeth  on  edge — he  wished  that  the  dinner 
were  over  and  everybody  down  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sea  but  Margaret;  he  had  come  to  see  his  sweetheart 
— not  to  talk  slavery. 

"  Yes,  I  saw  the  church,"  and  for  the  rest  of  the 
dinner,  Oliver  was  entertained  with  the  details  in  the 
life  of  the  Rev.  Leonidas  Brown,  including  his  man« 

326 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BKOOKFIELD  FARM 

ner  of  preaching;  the  crowds  who  would  go  to  hear 
him;  the  number  converted  under  the  good  man's 
ministrations;  to  all  of  which  Oliver  listened  with  a 
closeness  of  attention  that  would  have  surprised  those 
who  knew  him  unless  they  had  discovered  that  hir 
elbow  had  found  Margaret's  during  the  recital,  and 
that  the  biography  of  every  member  of  Brown's  con 
gregation  might  have  been  added  to  that  of  the  be 
loved  pastor  without  wearying  him  in  the  slightest 
degree. 

When  the  nuts  were  served — Silas  broke  his  with 
his  fingers — his  host  made  one  more  effort  to  draw 
Oliver  into  a  discussion,  but  Margaret  stopped  it  by 
exclaiming,  suddenly: 

"  Where  shall  Mr.  Horn  smoke,  mother?  "  She 
wanted  Oliver  to  herself — the  family  had  had  him 
long  enough. 

"  Why,  does  he  want  to  smoke  ?  "  she  answered, 
with  some  consternation. 

"  Yes,  of  course  he  does.     All  painters  smoke." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know;  let  me  see."  The  old  lady 
hesitated  as  if  seeking  the  choice  between  two  evils. 
"  I  suppose  in  the  sitting-room.  No — the  library 
would  be  better." 

"  Oh,  I  won't  smoke  at  all  if  your  mother  does 
not  like  it,"  Oliver  protested,  springing  from  his 
chair. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will,"  interrupted  John.  "  I  never 
327 


THE  FOKTOTES  OF  OLIVER  HORft 

smoke,  and  father  don't,  but  I  know  how  good  a  pipe 
tastes.     Let's  go  into  the  library." 

Margaret  gave  Oliver  the  big  chair  and  sat  beside 
him.  It  was  a  small  room,  the  walls  almost  hidden 
with  books;  the  windows  filled  with  flowering  plants. 
There  was  a  long  table  piled  up  with  magazines  and 
pamphlets,  and  an  open  fireplace,  the  wall  above  the 
mantel  covered  with  framed  pictures  of  weeping- 
willows  worked  out  with  hair  of  dead  relatives,  and 
the  mantel  itself  with  faded  daguerreotypes  propped 
apart  like  half-opened  clam-shells. 

Mr.  Grant  on  leaving  the  dining-room  walked 
slowly  to  the  window  without  looking  to  the  right 
or  left,  dropped  into  a  chair  and  gazed  out  through 
the  leaves  of  a  geranium.  The  meal  was  over. 
Now  he  wanted  rest  and  quiet.  When  Mrs.  Grant 
entered  the  library  and  saw  the  wavy  lines  of  tobacco- 
smoke  that  were  drifting  lazily  about  the  room  she 
stopped,  evidently  annoyed  and  uneasy.  No  such 
sacrilege  of  her  library  had  taken  place  for  years; 
not  since  her  Uncle  Reuben  had  come  home  from 
China.  The  waves  of  smoke  must  have  caught  the 
expression  on  her  face,  for  she  had  hardly  reached 
Oliver's  chair  before  they  began  stealing  along  the 
ceiling  in  long,  slanting  lines  until  they  reached 
the  doorway,  when  with  a  sudden  swoop,  as  if  fright 
ened,  and  without  once  looking  back,  they  escaped 
Into  the  hall. 

328 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BROOKFIELD  FAKM 

The  dear  lady  laid  her  hand  on  Oliver's  shoul 
der,  bent  over  him  in  a  tender,  motherly  way,  and 
said: 

"  Do  you  think  it  does  you  any  good? " 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  does." 

"  Why  should  you  do  it,  then?  " 

"  But  I  won't  if  you'd  rather  I'd  not."  Oliver 
sprang  to  his  feet,  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
was  about  to  cross  the  room  to  knock  the  ashes  from 
it  into  the  fireplace  when  Margaret  laid  her  hand  on 
|jis  arm. 

"  No,  don't  stop.  Mother  is  very  foolish  about 
some  things — smoking  is  one  of  them." 

"  But  I  can't  smoke,  darling,"  he  said,  in  an  under 
tone,  "  if  your  mother  objects."  The  mother  law 
was  paramount,  to  say  nothing  of  the  courtesy  re 
quired  of  him.  Then  he  added,  with  a  meaning  look 
in  his  eyes — "  Can't  we  get  away  some  place  whers 
we  can  talk?"  Deaf  mothers  are  a  blessing  some 
times. 

Margaret  pressed  his  hand — her  fingers  were  still 
closed  over  the  one  holding  the  pipe. 

"  In  a  moment,  Ollie,"  and  she  rose  and  went  into 
the  adjoining  room. 

Mrs.  Grant  went  to  her  husband's  side,  and  in 
her  gentle  mission  of  peace  put  her  arm  around  his 
neck,  patting  his  shoulder  and  talking  to  him  in 
a  low  tone,  her  two  yellow-white  curls  streaming 

329 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

down  over  the  collar  of  his  coat.  Silas  slipped  his 
hand  over  his  wife's  and  for  an  instant  caressed  it 
tenderly  with  his  cold,  bony  fingers.  Then  seeing 
Oliver's  eyes  turning  his  way  he  drew  in  his  shoul 
ders  with  a  quick  movement  and  looked  askance  at 
his  guest.  Any  public  show  of  affection  was  against 
Silas's  creed  and  code.  If  people  wanted  to  hug 
each  other,  better  do  it  upstairs,  he  would  say,  not 
where  everybody  was  looking  on,  certainly  not  this 
young  man,  who  was  enough  of  a  mollycoddle 
already. 

John,  now  that  Margaret  had  gone,  moved  over 
from  the  lounge  and  took  her  seat,  and  the  two 
young  men  launched  out  into  a  discussion  of  flies  and 
worms  and  fish-bait,  and  whether  frog's  legs  were 
better  than  minnows  in  fishing  for  pickerel,  and  what 
was  the  best-sized  shot  for  woodcock  and  Jack-snipe. 
Oliver  told  of  the  ducking-blinds,  of  the  Chesapeake, 
and  of  how  the  men  sat  in  wooden  boxes  sunk  to  the 
water's  edge,  with  the  decoy  ducks  about  them,  and 
shot  the  flocks  as  they  flew  over.  And  John  told  of 
a  hunting  trip  he  had  made  with  two  East  Branch 
guides,  and  how  they  went  loaded  for  deer  and  came 
back  with  a  bear  and  two  cubs.  And  so  congenial 
did  they  find  each  other's  society  that  before  Mar 
garet  returned  to  the  room — she  had  gone  into  her 
studio  to  light  the  lamp  under  the  tea-kettle — the  two 
young  fellows  had  discovered  that  they  were  both 

330 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BROOKFIELD  FARM 

very  good  fellows  indeed,  especially  Oliver  and  espe 
cially  John,  and  Oliver  had  half  promised  to  come 
up  in  the  winter  and  go  into  camp  with  John,  and 
John  met  him  more  than  half-way  with  a  promise 
to  accept  Oliver's  invitation  for  a  week's  visit  in  Ken- 
aedy  Square  the  next  time  he  went  home,  if  that 
happy  event  ever  took  place,  when  they  would  both 
go  down  to  Carroll's  Island  for  a  crack  at  a  canvas-- 
back. 

This  had  gone  on  for  ten  minutes  or  more — ten 
minutes  is  an  absurdly  long  period  of  time  under 
certain  circumstances — when  Margaret's  voice  was 
heard  in  the  doorway: 

"  Come,  John,  you  and  Mr.  Horn  have  talked  long 
enough;  I  want  to  show  him  my  studio  if  you'll  spare 
him  a  moment." 

John  knew  when  to  spare  and  when  not  to — oh, 
a  very  intelligent  brother  was  John!  He  did  not 
follow  and  talk  for  another  hour  of  what  a  good  time 
he  would  have  duck-shooting,  and  of  what  togs  he 
ought  to  carry — spoiling  everything;  nor  did  he  send 
his  mother  in  to  help  Margaret  entertain  their  guest. 
JSTone  of  these  stupid  things  did  John  do.  He  said 
he  would  go  down  to  the  post-office  if  Oliver  didn't 
mind,  and  would  see  him  at  supper,  and  Margaret 
said  that  that  was  a  very  clever  idea,  as  nobody  had 
gone  for  the  mail  that  day,  and  there  were  sure  to 
be  letters,  and  not  to  forget  to  ask  for  hers.  Aw 

331 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

fully  sensible  brother  was  John.  Why  aren't  there 
more  like  him? 

Entering  Margaret's  studio  was  like  going  back  to 
Moose  Hillock.  There  were  sketches  of  the  interior 
of  the  school-house,  and  of  the  children,  and  of  the 
teacher  who  had  taught  the  year  before.  There  was 
Mrs.  Taft  sitting  on  that  very  porch,  peeling  potatoes, 
with  a  tin  pan  in  her  lap — would  they  ever  forget 
that  porch  and  the  moonlight  and  the  song  of  the 
tree-toads,  and  the  cry  of  the  loon  ?  There  was  Hank 
in  cordurdys,  with  an  axe  over  his  shoulder;  and 
Hank  in  a  broad  straw  hat  and  no  shoes,  with  a 
fishing-pole  in  one  hand;  and  Hank  chopping  wood, 
the  chips  littering  the  ground.  There  was  Ezra  Pol 
lard  sitting  in  his  buckboard  with  a  buffalo-robe 
tucked  about  him,  and  Samanthy  by  his  side.  And 
best  of  all,  and  in  the  most  prominent  place,  too, 
there  was  the  original  drawing  of  the  Milo — the  one 
she  was  finishing  when  Oliver  upset  Judson,  and 
which,  strange  to  say,  was  the  only  Academy  draw 
ing  which  Margaret  had  framed — besides  scores  and 
scores  of  sketches  of  people  and  things  and  places 
that  she  had  made  in  years  gone  by. 

The  room  itself  was  part  of  an  old  portico  which 
had  been  walled  up.  It  had  a  fireplace  at  one  end, 
holding  a  Franklin  stove,  and  a  skylight  overhead, 
the  light  softened  by  green  shades.  Here  she  kept 
her  own  books  ranged  on  shelves  over  the  mantel; 

332 


and  in  the  niches  and  corners  and  odd  spaces  a  few 
rare  prints  and  proofs — two  Guido  Renis  and  a  Leo 
nardo,  both  by  Raphael  Morghen.  Against  the  wall 
was  an  old  clothes-press  with  brass  handles,  its  draw 
ers  filled  with  sketches,  as  well  as  a  lounge  covered 
with  chintz  and  heaped  up  with  cushions.  The  door 
between  the  studio  and  library  had  been  taken  offr 
and  was  now  replaced  by  a  heavy  red  curtain.  Mar 
garet  had  held  it  aside  for  Oliver  to  enter,  and  it  had 
dropped  back  by  its  own  weight,  shutting  them  both 
safely  in. 

I  don't  know  what  happened  when  that  heavy 
red  curtain  swung  into  place,  and  mother,  father,, 
sea,  sky,  sun,  moon,  stars,  and  the  planets,  with 
all  that  in  them  is,  were  shut  out  for  a  too  brief 
moment. 

And  if  I  did  know  I  would  not  tell. 

We  go  through  life,  and  we  have  all  sorts  of  sen 
sations.  We  hunger  and  are  fed.  We  are  thirsty, 
and  reach  an  oasis.  We  are  homeless,  and  find  shel 
ter.  We  are  ill,  and  again  walk  the  streets.  We 
dig  and  delve  and  strain  every  nerve  and  tissue,  and 
the  triumph  comes  at  last,  and  with  it  often  riches 
and  honor.  All  these  things  send  shivers  of  delight 
through  us,  and  for  the  moment  we  spread  our  wings 
and  soar  heavenward.  But  when  we  take  in  our 
arms  the  girl  we  love,  and  hold  close  her  fresh,  sweet 
face,  with  its  trusting  eyes,  and  feel  her  warm  breath 

333 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

on  our  cheeks,  and  the  yielding  figure  next  our  heart, 
knowing  all  the  time  how  mean  and  good-for-nothing 
and  how  entirely  unworthy  of  even  tying  her  shoe 
strings  we  are,  we  experience  a  something  compared 
with  which  all  our  former  flights  heavenward  are  but 
the  flutterings  of  bats  in  a  cave. 

And  the  blessed  John  did  not  come  back  until 
black,  dark  night! — not  until  it  was  so  dark  that  you 
couldn't  see  your  hand  before  you  or  the  girl  beside 
you,  which  is  nearer  the  truth;  not  until  the  stout 
woman  in  spectacles  with  the  conversational  habit, 
had  brought  in  a  lard-oil  lamp  with  a  big  globe, 
which  she  set  down  on  Margaret's  table  among  her 
books  and  papers.  And  when  John  did  come,  and 
poked  his  twice-blessed  head  between  the  curtains,  it 
was  not  to  sit  down  inside  and  talk  until  supper-time, 
but  to  say  that  it  was  getting  cold  outside  and  that 
they  ought  to  have  a  fire  if  they  intended  to  sit  in  the 
studio  after  supper.  (Oh,  what  a  trump  of  a  brother!) 
And  if  they  didn't  mind  he'd  send  Hopeful  right 
away  with  some  chips  to  start  it.  All  of  which  Miss 
Hopeful  Prime  accomplished,  talking  all  the  time  to 
Margaret  as  she  piled  up  the  logs,  and  not  forget 
ting  a  final  word  to  Oliver  as  she  left  the  room,  to 
the  effect  that  she  "  guessed  it  must  be  kind  o'  com- 
fortin'  to  set  by  a  fire  " — such  luxuries,  of  course, 
to  her  thinking,  being  unknown  in  his  tropical  land, 
where  the  blacks  went  naked  and  the  children  lav 

334 


SOME   DAYS  AT  BROOKFIELD  FARM 

about  in  the  sun  munching  watermelons  and 
bananas. 

What  an  afternoon  it  had  been !  They  had  talked 
of  the  woods  and  their  life  under  the  trees;  of  the 
sketches  they  made  and  how  they  could  improve 
them,  and  would;  of  the  coming  winter  and  the 
prospect  of  the  school  being  opened  and  what  it 
meant  to  them  if  it  did,  and  how  much  more  if  it  did 
not,  and  she  be  compelled  to  remain  in  Brookfield 
with  Oliver  away  all  winter  in  ]^ew  York,  and  of  a 
thousand  and  one  other  things  that  lay  nearest  their 
hearts  and  with  which  neither  you  nor  I  have  any 
thing  to  do. 

It  was  good,  Margaret  thought,  to  talk  to  him  in 
this  way,  and  see  the  quick  response  in  his  eyes  and 
feel  how  true  and  helpful  he  was. 

She  had  dreaded  his  coming — dreaded  the  con 
trasts  which  she  knew  his  presence  among  them 
would  reveal.  She  knew  how  punctiliously  polite 
he  was,  and  how  brusque  and  positive  was  her  father. 
She  realized,  too,  how  outspoken  and  bluff  was  Johny 
and  how  unaccustomed  both  he  and  her  dear  deaf 
mother  were  to  the  ways  of  the  outside  world.  What 
would  Oliver  think  of  them?  What  effect  would 
her  home  life  have  on  their  future?  she  kept  saying 
to  herself. 

Not  that  she  was  ashamed  of  her  people,  certainly 
not  of  her  father,  who  really  occupied  a  higher  po- 

335 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORK 

sition  than  any  of  his  neighbors.  He  was  not  only 
a  deacon  in  the  church  and  chairman  of  the  School 
Board,  but  he  had  been  twice  sent  to  the  Legislature, 
and  at  one  time  had  been  widely  discussed  as  a  fitting 
candidate  for  Governor.  Nobody  in  Brookfield 
thought  the  less  of  him  because  of  his  peculiarities 
— many  of  his  neighbors  liked  him  the  better  for  his 
brusqueness;  they  believed  in  a  man  who  had  the 
courage  of  his  convictions  and  who  spoke  out$  no 
matter  whose  toes  he  trod  on. 

Nor  could  she  be  ashamed  of  her  brother  John — • 
so  kind  to  everybody;  so  brave  and  generous,  and 
such  a  good  brother.  Only  she  wished  that  he  had 
some  of  Oliver's  courtesy,  and  that  he  would  take 
off  his  hat  when  a  lady  spoke  to  him  in  the  road,  and 
keep  it  off  till  she  bade  him  replace  it,  and  observe 
a  few  of  the  other  amenities;  but  even  with  all  his 
defects  of  manner — all  of  which  she  had  never  be 
fore  noticed — he  was  still  her  own  dear  brother  John, 
and  she  loved  him  dearly. 

And  as  for  her  mother — that  most  gentle  and  gra 
cious  of  women — that  one  person  in  the  house  who 
was  considerate  of  everybody's  feelings  and  tolerant 
of  everybody's  impatience!  What  could  Oliver  find 
in  her  except  what  was  adorable?  As  she  thought 
of  her  mother,  a  triumphant  smile  crossed  her  face. 
"  That's  the  one  member  of  the  Grant  family,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "  whom  my  fine  gentleman  must  ad- 

336 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BKOOKFIELD  FAEM 

mit  is  the  equal  of  any  one  of  his  top-lofty  kinsfolk 
in  Kennedy  Square  or  anywhere  else."  Which  out 
burst  the  scribe  must  admit  to  himself  was  but  an 
other  proof  of  the  fact  that  no  such  thing  as  true 
democracy  exists  the  world  over. 

None  of  these  thoughts  had  ever  crossed  her  mind 
up  to  the  time  she  met  Oliver  on  the  bridge  that  first 
sunny  morning.  He  had  never  discussed  the  sub 
ject  of  any  difference  between  their  two  families,  nor 
had  he  ever  criticised  the  personality  of  anyone  she 
knew.  He  had  only  been  himself.  The  change  in 
he*r  views  had  come  gradually  and  unconsciously  to 
her  as  the  happy  weeks  flew  by.  Before  she  knew  it 
she  had  realized  from  his  talk,  from  his  gestures,  even 
from  the  way  he  sat  down  or  got  up,  or  handled  his 
knife  and  fork,  or  left  the  room  or  entered  it,  that 
some  of  her  early  teachings  had  led  her  astray,  and 
that  there  might  be  something  else  in  life  worth  hav 
ing  outside  of  the  four  cardinal  virtues — economy, 
industry,  pluck,  and  plain-speaking.  And  if  there 
were — and  she  was  quite  certain  of  it  now — would 
Oliver  find  them  at  Brookfield  Farm?  This  was 
really  the  basis  of  her  disquietude;  the  kernel  of  the 
nut  which  she  was  trying  to  crack. 

If  any  of  these  shortcomings  on  the  part  of  his 
entertainers  had  been  apparent  to  Oliver,  or  if  he 
had  ever  drawn  any  such  deductions,  or  noted 
any  such  contrasts,  judged  by  the  Kennedy 

337 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Square  code,  no  word  of  disappointment  had  passed 
his  lips. 

Some  things,  it  is  true,  during  his  visit  at  the  farm,, 
had  deeply  impressed  him,  but  they  were  not  those 
that  Margaret  feared.  He  had  thought  of  them  that, 
first  night  when  going  over  the  events  of  the  day  at 
they  passed  in  review  before  him.  One  personality 
and  one  incident  had  made  so  profound  an  impres 
sion  upon  him  that  he  could  not  get  to  sleep  for  an 
hour  thinking  about  them.  It  was  the  stalwart  fig 
ure  of  John  Grant  in  his  broad-brimmed  straw  hat 
and  heavy  boots  striding  up  the  garden-path  with  his 
scythe  over  his  shoulder.  This  apparition,  try  as  he 
might,  would  not  down  at  his  bidding. 

"  Think  of  that  young  fellow,"  he  kept  repeating 
to  himself.  "  The  eldest  son  and  heir  to  the  estate 
no  doubt,  a  college-bred  man  and  a  most  charming 
gentleman,  working  like  a  common  laborer  in.  his 
father's  field.  And  proud  of  it,  too — and  would  do 
it  again  and  talk  about  it.  And  yet  I  was  so  ashamed 
of  working  with  my  hands  that  I  had  to  run  away 
from  home  for  fear  the  boys  would  laugh  at  me." 

Margaret  heard  the  whole  story  from  Oliver's  lips 
the  next  morning  with  many  adornments,  and  with 
any  amount  of  good  resolutions  for  the  future.  She 
listened  quietly  and  held  his  hand  the  closer,  her  eyes 
dancing  in  triumph,  the  color  mounting  to  her  cheeks., 
but  she  made  no  reply. 

338 


SOME  DAYS  AT  BROOKFIELD  FARM 

Neither  did  she  return  the  confidence  and  tell  Oli 
ver  how  she  wished  her  father  could  see  some  things 
in  as  clear  a  light,  and  be  more  gentle  and  less  opin 
ionated.  She  was  too  proud  for  that. 

And  so  the  days,  crowded  thick  witk  emotions, 
sped  on. 

The  evening  of  their  first  one  came  and  passed, 
\vith  its  half-hours  when  neither  spoke  a  word  and 
when  both  trembled  all  over  for  the  rery  joy  of  liv 
ing;  and  the  morning  of  the  second  arrived,  bring 
ing  with  it  a  happiness  she  had  never  known  before, 
and  then  the  morning  of  the  third — and  the  last  day. 

They  had  kept  their  secret  even  from  John.  Oli 
ver  wanted  to  inform  her  father  at  once  of  his  at 
tachment,  telling  her  it  was  not  right  for  him  to 
accept  the  hospitality  of  her  parents  unless  they  un 
derstood  the  whole  situation,  but  she  begged  him  to 
wait,  and  he  had  yielded  to  her  wishes. 

They  had  all  discussed  him  at  their  pleasure. 

"  Nice  chap  that  young  Horn,"  John  had  said  to 
her  the  night  before.  "  We  had  three  or  four  of 
*em  in  my  class,  one  from  Georgia  and  two  from 
Alabama.  They'd  fight  in  a  minute,  but  they'd  make 
up  just  as  quick.  This  one's  the  best  of  the  lot." 
He  spoke  as  if  they  had  all  belonged  to  another  race 
—denizens  of  Borneo  or  Madagascar  or  the  islands 
of  the  Pacific. 

"  I  have  sent  my  love  to  his  mother,  my  d»a/r," 
339 


Mrs.  Grant  had  confided  to  her  early  that  same  morn 
ing.  "  I  am  sure  he  has  a  good  mother.  He  is  so 
kind  and  polite  to  me,  he  never  lets  me  remember 
that  I  am  deaf  when  I  talk  to  him/'  and  she  looked 
about  her  in  her  simple,  patient  way. 

"  Yes — perhaps  so,"  said  Silas,  sitting  hunched  up 
in  his  chair.  "  Seems  sort  of  skippy-like  to  me. 
Something  of  a  Dandy  Jim,  I  should  say.  Good 
enough  to  make  men  painters  of,  I  guess."  Artists 
in  those  days  had  few  friends  North  or  South. 

JSTone  of  these  criticisms  affected  Margaret.  She 
didn't  care  what  they  thought  of  him.  She  knew 
his  heart,  and  so  would  they  in  time. 

When  Oliver  had  said  all  his  public  good-byes  to 
the  rest  of  the  family — the  good-byes  with  which  we 
have  nothing  to  do  had  been  given  and  taken  in  the 
studio  with  the  curtains  drawn — he  joined  Margaret 
at  the  gate. 

They  were  standing  in  the  road  now,  under  the 
giant  elm,  waiting  for  the  stage.  She  stood  close 
beside  him,  touching  his  arm  with  her  own,  mourn 
fully  counting  the  minutes  before  the  stage  would 
come,  her  eyes  up  the  road.  All  the  light  and  love 
liness  of  the  summer,  all  the  joy  and  gladness  of  life, 
would  go  out  of  her  heart  when  the  door  of  the  lum 
bering  vehicle  closed  on  Oliver. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

LIVE    COALS    FROM    MISS    CLENDENNESTG's    WOOD-FIRE 

His  good-byes  said,  one  absorbing  thought  now 
filled  Oliver's  mind — to  reach  Kennedy  Square  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind  and  there  to  pour  into  the  ears 
of  Iris  mother  and  Miss  Lavinia,  and  of  anyone  else 
who  would  listen,  the  whys  and  wherefores  of  his  love 
for  Margaret,  with  such  additional  description  of  her 
personal  charms,  qualities,  and  talents  as  would  bring 
about,  in  the  shortest  possible  time,  the  most  amicable 
of  relations  between  Kennedy  Square  and  Brook- 
field  Farm.  He  was  determined  that  his  mother 
should  know  her  at  once.  He  knew  how  strong  her 
prejudices  were  and  what  her  traditions  would  cause 
her  to  think  of  a  woman  who  led  the  life  that  Mar 
garet  did,  but  these  things  did  not  deter  him.  A  new 
love  now  filled  his  heart — another  and  a  different 
kind  of  love  from  the  one  he  bore  his  mother.  One 
that  belonged  to  him;  one  that  was  his  own  and  af 
fected  his  life  and  soul  and  career.  He  was  pre 
pared  to  fight  even  harder  for  this  desire  of  his  soul 
than  for  his  art. 

There  being  no  air-ships  available  for  immediate 
341 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

•charter,  nor  big  balloons  waiting  for  passengers,  with 
sand-bags  ready  for  instant  unloading,  nor  any  un 
derground  pneumatic  tubes  into  which  he  could  be 
pumped  and  with  a  puff  landed  on  his  own  doorstep 
in  Kennedy  Square,  the  impatient  lover  was  obliged 
to  content  himself  with  the  back  seat  of  the  country 
stage  and  a  night  ride  in  the  train  down  the  valley. 

Then  came  a  delay  of  a  week  in  New  York  wait 
ing  for  the  return  of  Mr.  Slade  to  the  city — u  whom 
you  must  by  all  means  see  before  coming  home,"  so 
his  mother's  letter  ran.  This  delay  was  made  bear 
able  by  Waller,  Bowdoin,  and  old  Professor  Cum- 
mings  who  went  into  spasms  of  delight  over  the  boys' 
sketches.  Waller  especially  predicted  a  sure  future 
for  him  if  he  would  have  the  grit  to  throw  overboard 
-every  other  thing  he  was  doing  and  "  stick  it  out  and 
starve  it  out "  until  he  pulled  through  and  became 
famous. 

Mr.  Slade,  while  welcoming  him  with  both  hands, 
was  not  so  cheering.  The  financial  and  political  situ 
ations  were  no  better,  he  said.  They  had  really  be 
come  more  alarming  every  day.  The  repudiation 
of  Northern  accounts  by  Southern  merchants  had 
ceased — at  least  some  of  Morton,  Slade  &  Co.'s  cus 
tomers  had  redeemed  their  obligations  and  had  for 
warded  them  their  overdue  remittances,  tiding  them 
over  for  a  time — but  no  one  could  say  what  was  in 
.store  for  any  firm  whose  business  lay  largely  in  the 

342 


COALS  FROM  MISS  CLENDENNING'S  EIRE 

Southern  States.  He  would,  however,  make  his 
word  good.  Oliver's  situation  was  still  open,  and  he 
could  again  occupy  his  desk  as  soon  as  he  returned 
from  Kennedy  Square.  The  length  of  his  service 
depended  entirely  on  whether  the  country  would  go 
to  war  or  whether  its  difficulties  could  be  satisfactorily 
settled  in  the  next  Congress. 

But  none  of  these  things— none  of  the  more  de 
pressing  ones — dulled  for  an  instant  the  purpose  or 
chilled  the  enthusiasm  of  our  young  lover.  Wars, 
pestilence,  financial  panics  and  even  social  tidal- 
wav^es  might  overwhelm  the  land  and  yet  not  one 
drop  of  the  topmost  edge  of  the  flood  could  wet  the 
tips  of  his  high-stepping  toes:  Margaret  was  his;  he 
trod  an  enchanted  realm. 

An  enthusiasm  of  equal  intensity,  but  of  quite  a 
different  kind,  had  taken  possession  of  the  Horn 
mansion  as  the  hour  of  Oliver's  arrival  approached, 
as  anyone  would  have  noticed  who  happened  to  be 
inside  its  hospitable  walls.  Something  out  of  the 
common  was  about  to  happen.  There  was  an  unusual 
restlessness  in  Malachi  totally  at  variance  with  his 
grave  and  dignified  demeanor.  His  perturbation  was 
so  great  that  he  even  forgot  the  time-honored  cus 
tom  of  wheeling  his  master's  chair  into  position  and 
the  equally  time-honored  salutation  of  "  yo'  chair's 
all  ready,  Marse  Richard."  It  was  noticed,  too,  that 
he  could  not  keep  out  of  the  hall.  Richard  had  to 

34b 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

speak  to  him  twice  and  Mrs.  Horn  had  lifted  her 
head  in  astonishment  when  that  hitherto  attentive 
darky  handed  her  Richard's  spectacles  instead  of  her 
own.  Or  he  would  start  to  enter  the  dining-room, 
his  hands  laden  wTith  plates,  or  the  library,  his  arms 
filled  with  logs  to  replenish  the  fire,  and  then  stop 
suddenly  and  listen  with  one  foot  raised,  standing 
like  an  old  dog  locating  a  partridge.  So  nervous  did 
he  become  as  the  twilight  deepened,  and  he  began 
to  set  the  table  for  supper,  that  he  dropped  a  cup, 
smashing  it  into  atoms,  a  thing  that  had  not  hap 
pened  to  him  before  in  twenty  years — one  of  the 
blue  and  gilt — priceless  heirlooms  in  the  family, 
and  only  used  when  a  distinguished  guest  was  ex 
pected.  At  another  time  he  would  have  dropped  the 
whole  tray  with  everything  upon  it,  had  not  Aunt 
Hannah  saved  it  in  time.  How  she  came  to  be  in 
the  pantry  with  her  two  eyes  on  the  front  door,  when 
her  place  was  in  the  kitchen  with  both  of  them  on  the 
pots  and  kettles,  no  one  could  tell.  Everything 
seemed  to  be  at  sixes  and  sevens  in  the  old  house 
that  night. 

And  the  other  members  of  the  household  inside 
the  drawing-room  seemed  just  as  restless.  Richard, 
who  had  raked  the  coals  of  his  forge,  closed  the  green 
door  of  his  workshop,  and  had  dressed  himself  an 
hour  earlier  than  usual,  much  to  Malachi's  delight, 
became  so  restless  that  he  got  up  from  his  easy-chair 

344 


COALS  FKOM  MISS  CLENDEKNING'S  FIRE 

half  a  dozen  times  and  roamed  aimlessly  about  the 
room,  stopping  to  pick  up  a  book,  reading  a  line  and 
laying  it  down  again.  Mrs.  Horn  dropped  so  many 
stitches  that  she  gave  up  in  despair,  and  said  she  be 
lieved  she  would  not  knit. 

Malachi  heard  him  first. 

"  Dat's  him — dat's  Marse  Ollie,"  he  cried.  "  I 
'"know  dat  knock.  Here  he  is,  Mistis.  Here  he  is!  " 
He  sprang  forward,  threw  wide  the  door  and  had  him 
by  the  hand  before  the  others  could  reach  him. 

"  Fo'  Gawd,  Marse  Ollie,  ain't  ol'  Malachi  glad  ter 
git  his  han's  on  yer  once  mo'!  " 

It  was  unseemly  and  absurd  how  the  old  man  be 
haved  ! 

And  the  others  were  not  far  behind. 

"  My  boy,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Horn,  as  she  held  him 
close  to  her  breast.  There  are  few  words  spoken 
in  times  like  this. 

Richard  waited  behind  her  until  that  imperceptible 
moment  of  silence  had  passed — the  moment  a  mother 
gets  her  arms  around  the  son  she  loves.  Then  when 
the  sigh  of  restful  relief  that  always  follows  had 
spent  itself,  and  she  had  kissed  him  with  his  cheek 
held  fast  to  hers,  Oliver  loosened  his  hold  and  threw 
his  arms  about  his  father's  neck,  patting  him  be- 
tween  his  shoulder-blades  as  he  kissed  him. 

"  Dear  old  dad!  Oh,  but  it's  good  to  get  home! 
And  Aunt  Hannah,  you  there  ?  "  and  he  extended 

345 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORK 

his  hand  while  his  other  arm  was  still  around  hia 
father's  neck. 

"  Yas,  Marse  Ollie,  dat's  me;  dat's  ol'  Hannah," 
and  she  stepped  closer  and  grasped  his  outstretched 
hand,  smoothing  it  as  she  spoke.  "  Lord,  Marse 
Ollie,  but  ain't  you  filled  out?  You  is  de  probable 
son,  sho',  honey,  come  home  to  yo'  people." 

But  Oliver  wras  not  through  with  Malachi.  He 
must  take  both  of  his  hands  this  time  and  look  into 
his  eyes.  It  was  all  he  could  do  to  keep  from  hug 
ging  him.  It  would  not  have  been  the  first  time. 

"Been  well,  Mallie?" 

Of  course  he  had  been;  he  saw  it  in  his  face.  It 
was  only  to  say  something  to  which  the  old  darky 
could  reply  to — to  keep  in  touch  with  him — to  know 
that  he  was  speaking  to  this  same  old  Malachi  whom 
he  had  so  dearly  loved. 

"  Middlin'  po'ly,  yas — middlin'  po'ly,  suh." 

Malachi  had  not  the  slightest  idea  what  he  was 
talking  about.  He  had  not  been  sick  a  minute  since 
Oliver  left.  His  heart  was  too  near  bursting  with 
pride  at  his  appearance  and  joy  over  his  return  for 
his  mind  to  work  intelligently. 

"  Dem  Yankees  ain't  sp'iled  ye ;  no,  dey  ain't. 
Gor-a-mighty,  ain't  Malachi  glad."  Tears  were 
standing  in  his  eyes  now.  There  was  no  one  but 
Richard  he  loved  better  than  Oliver. 

No  fatted  calf  was  spitted  and  roasted  this  night 
346 


COALS  FEOM  MISS  CLENDENNIXG'S  FIRE 

on  Aunt  Hannah's  swinging  crane  for  this  "  prob 
able  son,"  but  there  was  corn-pone  in  plenty  and  a 
chafing  dish  of  terrapin — Malachi  would  not  let 
Aunt  Hannah  touch  it;  he  knew  just  how  much  Ma 
deira  to  put  in;  Hannah  always  '"drowned"  it,  he 
would  say.  And  there  was  sally-lunn  and  Maryland 
biscuit;  here,  at  last,  Aunt  Hannah  was  supreme — • 
her  elbows  told  the  story.  And  last  of  all  there  was 
a  great  dish  of  escalloped  oysters  cooked  in  fossil 
scallop  shells  thousands  of  years  old,  that  Malachi 
had  himself  dug  out  of  the  marl-banks  at  Yorktown 
when  he  was  a  boy,  and  which  had  been  used  in  the 
Horn  family  almost  as  many  times  as  they  were 
years  old.  Oh,  for  a  revival  of  this  extinct  concho- 
logical  comfort!  But  no!  It  is  just  as  well  not  to 
recall  even  the  memories  of  this  toothsome  dish. 
There  are  no  more  fossils,  neither  at  Yorktown  nor 
anywhere  else,  and  no  substitute  in  china,  tin,  or 
copper  will  be  of  the  slightest  use  in  giving  their 
flavor. 

Supper  served  and  over,  with  Oliver  jumping  up 
half  a  dozen  times  to  kiss  his  mother  and  plumping 
himself  down  again  to  begin  on  another  relay  of  pone 
or  terrapin  or  oysters,  much  to  Malachi's  delight 
("  He  do  eat,"  he  reported  to  Aunt  Hannah.  "  I  tell 
ye.  He's  bearin'  very  heavy  on  dem  scallops.  Dat's 
de  third  shell.") — the  doors  wrere  opened  with  a 
flourish,  and  the  three,  preceded  by  Malachi,  entered 

347 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

the  drawing-room  in  time  to  welcome  the  neigh 
bors. 

Nathan,  who  was  already  inside  sitting  by  the  fire, 
his  long,  thin  legs  stretched  out,  his  bunchy  white 
hair,  parted  in  the  middle,  falling  to  his  collar's  edge, 
sprang  up  and  shook  Oliver's  hand  heartily.  He 
had  charged  Malachi,  when  he  admitted  him,  to  keep 
his  presence  secret.  He  wanted  them  to  have  Oliver 
all  to  themselves. 

Miss  Clendenning  entered  a  moment  later  with 
both  hands  held  out.  She  would  not  stop  in  the  hall 
to  unwind  her  nubia  or  take  off  her  little  fur  boots, 
but  motioned  Oliver  to  her  knees  after  she  had  kissed 
him  joyously  on  both  cheeks,  and  held  out  those  two 
absurd  little  feet  for  his  ministrations,  while  Mrs. 
Horn  removed  her  nubia  and  cloak. 

The  rat-a-tat  at  the  door  was  now  constant.  Judge 
Bowman  and  old  Dr.  Wallace  and  four  or  five  of  the 
young  men,  with  the  young  girls,  entered,  all  with 
expressions  of  delight  at  Oliver's  return  home,  and 
later,  with  the  air  of  a  Lord  High  Mayor,  Colonel 
John  Clayton,  of  Pongateague,  with  Sue  on  his  arm. 
Clayton  was  always  a  picture  when  he  entered  a  room. 
He  stood  six  feet  and  an  inch,  his  gray  hair  brushed 
straight  back,  his  goatee  curling  like  a  fish-hook  at 
its  end.  "  Handsome  Jack  Clayton  "  \vas  still  hand 
some  at  sixty. 

After  the  Colonel  had  grasped  Oliver's  hand  in 
348 


COALS  FROM  MISS  CLENDENNING'S  FIRE 

his  warmest  manner,  Sue  laid  all  of  her  ten  fingers  in 
his. '  It  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  watch  the  little 
witch's  face  as  she  stood  for  a  moment  and  looked 
Oliver  over.  She  had  not  written  to  him  for  months. 
She  had  had  half  a  dozen  beaus  since  his  departure, 
but  she  claimed  him  all  the  same  as  part  of  her  spoils. 
His  slight  mustache  seemed  to  amuse  her  immensely. 

"  Are  you  glad  to  see  me,  Ollie?  "  she  asked,  look 
ing  archly  at  him  from  under  her  lashes. 

"Why,  Sue!" 

Of  course  he  was  glad — for  a  minute — not  much 
lor£er.  How  young  she  is,  he  thought,  how  pro 
vincial.  As  she  rattled  on  he  noticed  the  mass  of 
ringlets  about  her  face  and  the  way  her  head  was 
set  on  her  shoulders.  Her  neck,  he  saw,  was  much 
shorter  than  Margaret's,  and  a  little  out  of  drawing. 
Xor  was  there  anything  of  that  fearless  look  or  toss 
of  the  head  like  a  surprised  deer,  which  made  Mar 
garet  so  distinguished.  Oliver  had  arrived  at  that 
stage  in  his  affection  when  he  compared  all  women 
to  one. 

All  this  time  Sue  was  reading  his  mind.  Trust  a 
young  girl  for  that  when  she  is  searching  a  former 
lover's  eyes  for  what  lies  behind  them.  She  was  evi 
dently  nettled  at  what  she  found  and  had  began  by 
saying  "  she  supposed  the  Yankee  girls  had  quite 
captured  his  heart,"  when  the  Colonel  interrupted 
her  by  asking  Oliver  whether  the  Xorthern  men 

349 


THE  FOKTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

really  thought  they  could  coerce  the  South  into  giv 
ing  up  their  most  treasured  possessions. 

He  had  been  nursing  his  wrath  all  day  over  a  fresh 
attack  made  on  the  South  by  some  Northern  paper, 
and  Oliver  was  just  the  person  to  vent  it  upon — not 
that  he  did  not  love  the  lad,  but  because  he  was  fresh 
from  the  despised  district. 

"  I  don't  think  they  want  to,  sir.  They  are  op 
posed  to  slavery  and  so  are  a  good  many  of  us.  You 
have  a  wrong  idea  of  the  life  at  the  North,  Colonel. 
You  have  never  been  North,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear  Oliver,  and  I  never  intend  to.  If 
ever  I  go  it  will  be  with  a  musket.  They  have  had 
it  all  their  own  way  lately  with  their  Harriet  Stowes, 
"William  Lloyd  Garrisons,  and  John  Browns;  it  is 
our  turn  now." 

"  Who  do  you  want  to  run  through  the  body, 
Clayton?  "  asked  Richard,  joining  the  group  and  lay 
ing  his  hands  affectionately  on  the  Colonel's  shoul 
ders. 

"  Anybody  and  everybody,  Richard,  who  says  we 
are  not  free  people  to  do  as  we  please." 

"  And  is  anybody  really  saying  so?  " 

"  Yes ;  you  see  it  every  day  in  every  Northern  edi 
torial — another  to-day — a  most  villainous  attack 
which  you  must  read.  These  Puritans  have  been  at 
it  for  years.  This  psalm-singing  crew  have  always 
hated  us.  Now,  while  they  are  preaching  meekness 

350 


COALS  FROM  MISS  CLENDENNESTG'S  FIRE 

and  lowliness  and  the  rights  of  our  fellow-men — black 
ones  they  mean — they  are  getting  ready  to  wad  their 
guns  with  their  hymn-books.  It's  all  a  piece  of  their 
infernal  hypocrisy!  " 

"But  why  should  they  hate  us,  Clayton?"  asked 
Richard  in  a  half-humorous  tone.  He  had  no  spirit 
of  contention  in  him  to-night,  not  with  Oliver  beside 
Jiim. 

"  Because  we  Cavaliers  are  made  of  different  stuff; 
that's  why!  All  this  talk  about  slavery  is  nonsense. 
These  Nutmeg  fellows  approved  of  slavery  as  long 
as  tfiey  could  make  a  dollar  out  of  the  traffic,  and 
then,  as  soon  as  they  found  out  that  they  had  given 
us  a  commercial  club  with  which  to  beat  out  their 
brains,  and  that  we  were  really  dominating  the  na 
tion,  they  raised  this  hue  and  cry  about  the  down 
trodden  negro  and  American  freedom  and  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  and  a  lot  of  such  tomfoolery.  Do  you 
know  any  gentleman  who  beats  his  negroes?  Do 
you  beat  Malachi?  Do  I  beat  my  Sam,  whom  I  have 
brought  up  from  a  boy  and  who  would  lay  down  his 
life  any  day  for  me?  I  tell  you,  Richard,  it  is  noth 
ing  but  a  fight  for  financial  and  political  mastery. 
They're  afraid  of  us ;  they've  been  so  for  years.  They 
cried  '  Wolf  '  when  the  fugitive  slave  law  was  passed 
and  they've  kept  it  up  ever  since." 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  it,"  exclaimed  Richard,  with 
a  positive  tone  in  his  voice,  "  and  neither  do  you, 

351 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Clayton.  It's  largely  a  question  of  sentiment.  They 
don't  believe  one  man  should  hold  another  in  bond 
age." 

"  That's  where  you  are  wrong.  They  don't  care 
a  fippenny  bit  about  the  negro.  If  they  ever  suc 
ceed  in  their  infernal  purpose  and  abolish  slavery, 
and  set  the  negro  adrift,  mark  my  words,  they  won't 
live  with  him,  and  they  won't  let  him  come  North 
and  work  alongside  of  their  own  people.  They'll 
throw  him  back  on  us  after  they  have  made  a  beggar 
and  a  criminal  of  him.  Only  a  Southerner  under 
stands  the  negro,  and  only  a  Southerner  can  care 
for  him.  See  what  we  have  done  for  them!  Every 
slave  that  landed  on  our  shores  we  have  changed 
from  a  savage  into  a  man.  They  forget-  this." 

Judge  Bowman  joined  in  the  discussion — so  did 
Dr.  Wallace.  The  Judge,  in  his  usual  ponderous 
way,  laid  down  the  law,  both  State  and  National— 
the  Doctor,  who  always  took  the  opposite  side  in  any 
argument,  asking  him  rather  pointed  questions  as 
to  the  rights  of  the  Government  to  control  the  sev 
eral  States  as  a  unit. 

Richard  held  his  peace.  He  felt  that  this  was  not 
the  night  of  all  others  to  discuss  politics,  and  he  was 
at  a  loss  to  understand  the  Colonel's  want  of  self- 
restraint.  He  could  not  agree  with  men  like  Clay 
ton.  He  felt  that  the  utterance  of  such  inflamma 
tory  speeches  only  added  fuel  to  the  smouldering 

flame.     If  the  ugly  jets  of  threatening  smoke  that 

352 


COALS  FROM  MISS  CLEKDENNIKG'S  FIRE 

were  creeping  out  everywhere  because  of  the  fric 
tion  between  the  two  sections  were  in  danger  of 
bursting  into  flame,  the  first  duty  of  a  patriot,  ac 
cording  to  his  creed,  was  to  stand  by  with  pails  of 
water,  not  with  kegs  of  gunpowder.  So,  while  Clay 
ton's  outspoken  tirade  still  filled  the  room,  he  with 
his  usual  tact  did  all  he  could  to  soften  the  effect  of 
his  words.  Then  again,  he  did  not  want  Oliver's 
feelings  hurt. 

Malachi's  entrance  with  his  tray,  just  as  the  sub 
ject  was  getting  beyond  control,  put  a  stop  to  the 
discussion.  The  learned  group  of  disputants  with 
the  other  guests  quickly  separated  into  little  coteries, 
the  older  men  taking  their  seats  about  an  opened 
card-table,  on  which  Malachi  had  previously  depos 
ited  several  thin  glasses  and  a  pair  of  decanters,  the 
ladies  sitting  together,  and  the  younger  people 
laughing  away  in  a  corner,  where  Oliver  joined 
them. 

Richard  and  Nathan,  now  that  the  danger  was 
averted  (they  were  both  natural  born  peace-makers), 
stepped  across  the  room  to  assist  in  entertaining  Miss 
Clendenning.  The  little  lady  had  not  moved  from 
the  chair  in  which  she  sat  when  Oliver  relieved  her 
of  her  fur  boots.  She  rarely  did  move  when  once 
she  had  chosen  a  place  for  herself  in  a  drawing-room. 
She  was  the  kind  of  woman  who  could  sit  in  one 
place  and  still  be  surrounded — by  half-moons  of 

adorers  if  she  sat  against  the  wall,  by  full  moons  if 

353 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

she  sat  in  the  open.  She  had  learned  the  art  when 
a  girl. 

"  If  Clayton  would  go  among  these  people,  my 
dear  Lavinia,"  said  Richard,  in  a  deprecating  tone, 
drawing  up  a  chair  and  seating  himself  beside  her, 
"  he  would  find  them  very  different  from  what  he 
thinks.  Some  of  the  most  delightful  men  I  have 
ever  met  have  come  from  the  States  north  of  us. 
You  know  that  to  be  so." 

"  That  depends,  Richard,  on  how  far  North  you 
go,"  Miss  Clendenning  answered,  spreading  her  fan 
as  she  spoke,  looking  in  between  the  sticks  as  if 
searching  for  specimens.  "  In  Philadelphia  I  find 
some  very  delightful  houses,  quite  like  our  own.  In 
New  York — well,  I  rarely  go  to  New  York.  The 
journey  is  a  tiresome  one  and  the  hotels  abominable. 
They  are  too  busy  there  to  be  comfortable,  and  I  do 
not  like  noisy,  restless  people.  They  give  me  a 
headache." 

"  Oliver  has  met  some  charming  people,  he  tells 
me,"  said  Richard.  '"'  Mr.  Slade  took  him  into  his 
own  home  and  treated  him  quite  like  a  son." 

"  Of  course  he  did;  why  not?  "  Miss  Clendenning 
was  erect  now,  her  eyes  snapping  with  roguish  in 
dignation.  "  Anybody  would  be  glad  to  take  Oliver 
into  their  home,  especially  when  they  have  two  mar 
riageable  daughters.  Oliver's  bow  as  he  enters  a 
room  is  a  passport  to  any  society  in  the  world,  my 
dear  Richard.  My  Lord  Chesterfield  Clayton  has 

354 


COALS  FEOM  MISS  CLENDENNING'S  FIRE 

no  better  manners  nor  any  sweeter  smile  than  our 
own  Lorenzo.  Watch  Oliver  now  as  he  talks  to 
those  girls." 

Richard  had  been  watching  him;  he  had  hardly 
taken  his  eyes  from  him.  Every  time  he  looked  at 
him  his  heart  swelled  the  more  with  pride. 

"  And  you  think,  Lavinia,  Mr.  Slade  invited  him 
because  of  his  manners?"  He  was  sure  of  it.  He 
only  wanted  her  to  confirm  it. 

"Of  course.  What  else?"  and  she  cut  her  eye 
at  Ijim.  knowingly.  "  How  many  of  the  other  clerks 
did  he  invite?  Not  one.  I  wanted  to  find  out  and 
I  made  Ollie  write  me.  They  are  queer  people, 
these  Northerners.  They  affect  to  despise  good 
blood  and  good  breeding  and  good  manners.  That's 
all  fol-de-rol — they  love  it.  They  are  eternally 
talking  of  equality — equality;  one  man  as  good  as 
another.  When  they  say  that  one  man  is  as  good 
as  another,  Richard,  they  mean  that  they  are  as  good, 
never  the  other  poor  fellow." 

"  Now,  my  dear  Lavinia,  stop  a  moment,"  laughed 
the  inventor  in  protest.  "  You  do  not  mean  to  eay 
there  are  really  no  gentlemen  north  of  us?  " 

"  Plenty  of  gentlemen,  Richard,  but  few  thor 
oughbreds.  There  is  a  distinction,  you  know." 

"  Which  do  you  value  most?  " 

"  Oh,    the    thoroughbred.     A    gentleman    might 

gome  time  offend  you  by  telling  you  the  truth  about 

355 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

yourself  or  your  friends.  The  thoroughbred,  never," 
and  she  lifted  her  hands  in  mock  horror. 

"  And  he  could  be  a  rogue  and  yet  his  manners 
would  save  him?  " 

"  Quite  true,  dear  Richard,  quite  true.  The  most 
charming  man  I  ever  met  except  your  dear  self  " — • 
and  she  smiled  graciously  and  lowered  her  voice  as  if 
what  she  was  about  to  tell  was  in  the  strictest  con 
fidence — "  was  a  shrivelled-up  old  prince  who  once 
called  on  my  father  and  myself  in  Vienna.  He  was 
as  ugly  as  a  crab,  and  walked  with  a  limp.  There 
had  been  some  words  over  a  card-table,  he  told  me, 
and  the  other  man  fired  first.  I  was  a  young  girl 
then,  but  I  have  never  forgotten  him  to  this  day. 
Indeed,  my  dear  Nathan,"  and  she  turned  to  the  old 
musician  and  laid  her  wee  hand  confidingly  on  his 
knee,  "  but  for  the  fact  that  the  princess  was  a  most 
estimable  woman  and  still  alive,  I  might  have  been 
— well,  I  really  forget  what  I  might  have  been,  for 
I  do  not  remember  his  name,  but  it  was  something 
most  fascinating  in  five  or  six  syllables.  Now  all 
that  man  ever  did  to  make  that  unaccountable  im 
pression  upon  me  was  just  to  pick  up  my  handker 
chief.  Oh,  Nathan,  it  really  gives  me  a  little  quiver 
to  this  day!  I  never  watch  Oliver  bow  but  I  think 
of  my  prince.  Now  I  have  never  found  that  kind 
of  quality,  grace,  bearing,  presence — whatever  you 
nay  choose  to  call  it — in  the  Puritan.  He  has  not 

time  to  learn  it.     He  despises  such  subtle  courtesies, 

356 


COALS  FROF  MISS  CLEXDENKCSTG'S  FIEE 

They  smack  of  the  cavalier  and  the  court  to  him. 
He  is  content  with  a  nod  of  the  head  and  a  hurried 
handshake.  So  'are  his  neighbors.  They  would 
grow  suspicious  of  each  other's  honesty  if  they  did 
more.  Tut,  tut,  my  dear  Richard!  My  prince's 
grooms  greeted  each  other  in  that  way." 

Richard  and  Nathan  laughed  heartily.  "  And  you 
only  find  the  manners  of  the  ante-chamber  and  the 
throne-room  South  ?  "  asked  the  inventor. 

"  Um — not  always.  It  used  to  be  so  in  my  day 
and  yours,  but  we  are  retrograding.  It  is  unpardon 
able  in  our  case  because  we  have  known  better.  But 
up  there  "  (and  she  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the 
North  Star)  "  they  never  did  know  better;  that's 
some  excuse  for  them." 

"  Ah,  you  incorrigible  woman,  you  must  not  talk 
so.  You  have  not  seen  them  all.  Many  of  the  men 
who  do  me  the  honor  to  come  to  my  workroom  are 
most  delightful  persons.  Only  last  week  there  came 
one  of  the  most  interesting  scientists  that  I  have  met 
for " 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  I  have  not  a  doubt  of  it,  my 
dear  Richard,  but  I  am  talking  of  men,  my  friend, 
not  dried  mummies." 

Again  Richard  laughed.  One  of  his  greatest 
pleasures  was  to  draw  Miss  Clendenning  out  on  top 
ics  of  this  class.  He  knew  she  did  not  believe  one- 
half  that  she  said.  It  was  the  way  she  parried  his 

thrusts  that  delighted  him. 

357 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  "Well,  then,  take  Mr.  Wlnthrop  Pierce  Lawrence. 
No  more  charming  gentleman  ever  entered  my  house. 
You  were  in  London  at  the  time  or  you  would  cer 
tainly  have  dined  with  him  here.  Mr.  Lawrence  is 
not  only  distinguished  as  a  statesman  and  a  brilliant 
scholar,  but  his  manners  are  perfect." 

Miss  Clendenning  turned  her  head  and  looked  at 
Richard  under  her  eyelashes.  "  Where  did  you  say 
'he  was  from? " 

"  Boston." 

"  Boston  ? "  A  rippling,  gurgling  laugh  floated 
through  the  room. 

"  Yes,  Boston.     "Why  do  you  laugh  ?  " 

"  Bostonians,  my  dear  Richard,  have  habits  and 
customs,  never  manners.  It  is  impossible  that  they 
should.  They  are  seldom  underbred,  mind  you, 
they  are  always  overbred,  and,  strange  to  say.  with 
out  the  slightest  sense  of  humor,  for  they  are  all 
brought  up  on  serious  isms  and  solemn  fads.  The 
excitement  we  have  gone  through  over  this  out 
rageous  book  of  this  Mrs.  Stowe's  and  all  this  woman 
movement  is  but  a  part  of  their  training.  How  is  it 
possible  for  people  who  believe  in  such  dreadful  per 
sons  as  this  Miss  Susan  Anthony  and  that  Miss — 
something-or-other — I  forget  her  name — to  know 
what  the  word  c  home  '  really  means  and  what  graces 
should  adorn  it?  They  could  never  understand  my 
ugly  prince,  and  he? — well,  he  would  be  too  polite  to 

tell  them  what  he  thought  of  them.     No,  my  dear 

1  358 


COALS  FKOM  MISS  CLENDEOTING'S  FIRE 

Richard,  they  don't  know ;  they  never  will  know,  and 
they  never  will  be  any  better." 

Oliver  had  crossed  the  room  and  had  reached  her 
chair. 

"  Who  will  never  be  any  better,  you  dear  Mid 
get?  "  he  cried. 

"  You,  you  dear  boy,  because  you  could  not. 
Come  and  sit  by  me  where  I  can  get  my  hand  on 
you.  If  I  had  my  way  you  would  never  be  out  of 
reach  of  my  five  fingers." 

Oliver  brought  up  a  stool  and  sat  at  her  feet. 

"  Your  Aunt  Lavinia,  Ollie,"  said  Richard,  rising 
to  his  feet  (this  relationship  was  of  the  same  char 
acter  as  that  of  Uncle  Nathan  Gill),  "  seems  to  think 
our  manners  are  retrograding." 

"Not  yours?"  protested  Oliver,  with  a  laugh,  as 
he  turned  quickly  toward  Miss  Clendenning. 

"  No,  you  sweetheart,  nor  yours,"  answered  Miss 
Clendenning,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  affection. 
"  Come,  now,  you  have  lived  nearly  two  years  among 
these  dreadful  Yankees — what  do  you  think  of 
them?  " 

"  What  could  I  think  of  people  who  have  been  so 
kind  to  me?  Fred  Stone  has  been  like  a  brother, 
and  so  has  everybody  else." 

Mrs.  Horn  had  joined  the  group  and  sat  listening. 

"  But  their  manners,  my  son,"  she  asked.  "  Do 
you  see  no  difference  between  them  and — and — and 

your    father's,    for    instance  ? "    and   she    motioned 

359 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

toward  Richard  who  was  now  moving  across  the  room 
to  speak  to  other  guests. 

"  Dad  is  himself  and  you  are  yourself  and  I  am 
myself,"  replied  Oliver  with  some  positiveness. 
"  When  people  are  kind  I  never  stop  to  think  how 
they  do  it." 

"  Lovely,"  Miss  Clendenning  whispered  to  ]STa- 
than.  "  Spoken  like  a  thoroughbred.  Yes,  he  is 
better  than  my  ugly  prince.  He  would  always  have 
remembered  how  they  did  it." 

"  And  you  see  no  difference  either  in  the  ladies?  " 
continued  Mrs.  Horn,  with  increasing  interest  in  her 
tones.  "  Are  the  young  girls  as  sweet  and  engag 
ing?  "  She  had  seen  Margaret's  name  rather  often 
in  his  letters  and  wondered  what  impression  she  had 
made  upon  him.  Oliver's  eyes  flashed  and  the  color 
mounted  to  his  cheeks.  Miss  Clendenning  saw  it 
and  bent  forward  a  little  closer  to  get  his  answer. 

"  Well,  you  see,  mother,  I  do  not  know  a  great 
many,  I  am  so  shut  up.  Miss  Grant,  whom  I  wrote 
you  about,  is— well,  you  must  see  her.  She  is  not 
the  kind  of  girl  that  you  can  describe  very  well — 
she  really  is  not  the  kind  of  girl  that  you  can  describe 
at  all.  We  have  been  together  all  summer,  and  I 
stopped  at  her  father's  house  for  a  few7  days  when  I 
came  down  from  the  mountains.  They  live  in  the 
most  beautiful  valley  you  ever  saw." 

Miss  Clendenning  wyas  watching  him  closely.     She 

caught  a  look  that  his  mother  had  missed. 

360 


COALS  FROM  MISS  CLEKDESTNTNGPS  FIRE 

"  Is  she  pretty,  Ollie  ?  "  asked  Miss  Lavinia. 

"  She  is  better  than  pretty.  You  would  not  say 
the  Milo  was  pretty,  would  you  ?  There  is  too  much 
in  her  for  prettiness." 

"•  And  are  the  others  like  her?  "  The  little  lady 
was  only  feeling  about,  trying  to  put  her  finger  on 
the  pulse  of  his  heart. 

"  No;  there  is  nobody  like  her.  Nobody  I  have 
ever  met." 

Miss  Clendenning  was  sure  now. 

Malachi's  second  entrance — this  time  with  the 
great  china  bowl  held  above  his  head — again  inter 
rupted  the  general  talk. 

Since  the  memory  of  man  no  such  apple-toddy  had 
ever  been  brewed! 

Even  Colonel  Clayton,  when  he  tasted  it,  looked 
over  his  glass  and  nodded  approvingly  at  its  creator 
— a  recognition  of  genius  which  that  happy  darky 
acknowledged  by  a  slight  bend  of  his  back,  anything 
else  being  out  of  the  question  by  reason  of  the  size 
of  the  bowl  he  was  carrying  and  the  presence  of  his 
master  and  of  his  master's  guests. 

This  deposited  on  a  side  table,  another  bowl  filled 
with  Olio — a  most  surprising  and  never-to-be-forgot 
ten  salad  of  chicken  and  celery  and  any  number  of 
other  toothsome  things — was  placed  beside  it,  to 
gether  with  a  plate  of  moonshines  and  one  of  Mary 
land  biscuits. 

Then  came  some  music,  in  which  Oliver  sang  and 
361 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Miss  Clendenning  played  his  accompaniments — the 
old  plantation  melodies,  not  the  new  songs — and  next 
the  "  wrappings  up  "  in  the  hall,  the  host  and  host 
ess  and  the  whole  party  moving  out  of  the  drawing- 
room  in  a  body.  Here  Nathan,  with  great  gallantry, 
insisted  on  getting  down  on  his  stiff  marrow-bones 
to  put  on  Miss  Clendenning's  boots,  while  the  young 
men  and  Oliver  tied  on  the  girls'  hoods,  amid  "  good 
byes  "  and  "  so  glads  "  that  he  could  come  home  if 
only  for  a  day,  and  that  he  had  not  forgotten  them, 
Oliver's  last  words  being  whispered  in  Miss  Clenden 
ning's  ear  informing  her  that  he  would  come  over 
in  the  morning  and  see  her  about  a  matter  of  the 
greatest  importance.  And  so  the  door  was  shut  on 
the  last  guest. 

When  the  hall  was  empty  Oliver  kissed  his  father 
good-night,  and,  slipping  his  arm  around  his  moth 
er's  waist,  as  he  had  always  done  when  a  boy,  the 
two  went  slowly  upstairs  to  his  little  room.  He 
could  not  wait  a  minute  longer.  He  must  unburden 
his  heart  about  Margaret.  This  was  what  he  had 
come  for.  If  his  mother  had  only  seen  her  it  would 
be  so  much  easier,  he  said  to  himself  as  he  pushed 
open  his  bedroom  door. 

"  You  are  greatly  improved,  my  son,"  she  said, 
with  a  tone  of  pride  in  her  voice.  "  I  see  the  change 
already."  She  had  lighted  the  candle  and  the  two 
were  seated  on  the  bed,  his  arm  still  around  her. 

"How,  mother?" 

362 


COALS  FROM  MISS  CLENDENtflNG'S  FIRE 

"  Oh,  in  everything.  The  boy  is  gone  out  of  you. 
You  are  more  reposeful;  more  self-reliant.  I  like 
your  modesty  too."  She  could  tell  him  of  his  faults, 
she  could  also  tell  him  of  his  virtues. 

"  And  the  summer  has  done  you  good,"  she  con 
tinued.  "  I  felt  sure  it  would.  Mr.  Slade  has  been 
a  steadfast  friend  of  yours  from  the  beginning.  Tell 
,me  now  about  your  new  friends.  This  Miss  Grant 
• — is  she  not  the  same  girl  you  wrote  me  about,  some 
months  ago — the  one  who  drew  with  you  at  the  art 
school?  Do  you  like  her  people?"  This  thought 
was*uppermost  in  her  mind — had  been  in  fact  evei 
since  she  first  saw  Margaret's  name  in  his  letters. 

"  Her  mother  is  lovely  and  she  has  got  a  brother 
— a  Dartmouth  man — who  is  a  fine  fellow.  I  liked 
him  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  him;  "  Oliver  an 
swered  simply,  wondering  how  he  would  begin. 

"'Is  her  father  living?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  is  he?  " 

"  Well — of  course,  he  is  not  like  our  people.  He 
is  a — well — he  always  says  just  what  he  thinks,  you 
know.  But  he  is  a  man  of  character  and  position." 
He  was  speaking  for  Margaret  now.  "  They  have 
more  family  portraits  than  we  have."  This  was  said 
in  a  tone  that  was  meant  to  carry  weight. 

"  And  people  of  education?  " 

"  Oh,  I  should  certainly  say  so.     It  is  nothing  but 

books  all  over  the  house.     Really,  he  has  more  books 

363 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVEK  HORN 

than  Dad."  This  statement  was  to  strengthen  the 
one  regarding  the  family  ancestors — both  telling  ar 
guments  about  Kennedy  Square. 

"  And  this  girl — is  she  a  lady  ?  " 

The  question  somehow  put  to  flight  all  his  mental 
mano3uvres.  "  She  is  more  than  a  lady,  mother. 
She  is  the  dearest —  He  stopped,  hesitated  for  an 
instant,  and  slipping  his  arm  around  his  mother's 
neck  drew  her  close  to  him.  Then,  in  a  torrent  of 
words — his  cheeks  against  hers — the  whole  story 
came  out.  He  was  a  boy  again  now;  that  quality 
in  him  that  would  last  all  his  life.  She  listened  with 
her  eyes  on  the  floor,  her  heart  torn  with  varying 
emotions.  She  was  disturbed,  but  not  alarmed. 
One  phase  of  the  situation  stood  out  clearly  in  her 
practical  mind — his  poverty  and  the  impossibility  of 
any  immediate  marriage.  Before  that  obstacle  could 
be  removed  she  felt  sure  his  natural  vacillation  re 
garding  women  would  save  him.  He  would  forget 
her  as  he  had  Sue. 

"  And  you  say  her  brother  works  in  the  fields  and 
that  her  father  and  mother  permitted  this  girl  to 
leave  home  and  sit  night  after  night  with  you  young 
men  with  no  other  protection  than  that  of  a  common 
Irishwoman?"  There  was  a  tone  of  censure  now 
in  her  voice  that  roused  a  slight  antagonism  in  Oliver. 

"  Why  not?  What  could  harm  her?  There  was 
no  other  place  for  her  to  go  where  she  could  learn 
anything." 

364 


COALS  FROM  MISS  CLENDEMTOG'S  FIRE 

Mrs.  Horn  kept  still  for  a  moment,  looking  on  the 
floor.  Oliver  sat  watching  her  face. 

"  And  your  family,  my  son,"  she  protested  with 
a  certain  patient  disapproval  in  her  tones.  "  Do 
they  count  for  nothing?  I,  of  course,  would  love 
anybody  you  would  make  your  wife,  but  you  have 
others  about  you.  No  man  has  a  right  to  marry  be- 
^neath  him.  Do  not  be  in  a  hurry  over  this  matter. 
Come  home  for  your  wife  when  you  are  ready  to 
marry.  Give  yourself  time  to  compare  this  girl, 
who  seems  to  have  fascinated  you,  with — Sue,  for  in- 
starffce,  or  any  of  the  others  you  have  been  brought 
up  with." 

Oliver  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  the  mention  of 
Sue's  name.  He  had  compared  her. 

"  You  would  not  talk  this  way,  dearie,  if  you  could 
see  her,"  he  replied  in  a  hopeless  way  as  if  the  futil 
ity  of  making  his  mother  understand  was  now  be 
coming  apparent  to  him.  "  She  is  different  from 
anyone  you  ever  met — she  is  so  strong,  so  fine — - 
such  a  woman  in  all  that  the  word  means.  Not  some 
thing  you  fondle  and  make  love  to,  remember,  but 
a  woman  more  like  a  Madonna  that  you  worship,  or 
a  Greek  goddess  that  you  might  fear.  As  to  the 
family  part  of  it,  I  am  getting  tired  of  it  all,  mother. 
What  good  is  Grandfather  Horn  or  anybody  else  to 
me?  I  have  got  to  dig  my  way  out  just  as  they  did. 
Just  as  dear  old  Dad  is  doing.  If  he  succeeds  in  his 

work  who  will  help  him  but  himself?     There  have 

365 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

been  times  when  I  used  to  love  to  remember  him 
sitting  by  his  reading-lamp  or  with  his  violin  tucked 
under  his  chin,  and  I  was  proud  to  think  he  was  my 
father.  Do  you  know  what  sets  my  blood  on  fire 
now?  It  is  when  I  think  of  him  standing  over  his 
forge  and  blowing  his  bellows,  his  hands  black  with 
coal.  I  understand  many  things,  dearie,  that  I  knew 
nothing  about  when  I  left  home.  You  used  to  tell 
me  yourself  that  everybody  had  to  work,  and  you 
sent  me  away  to  do  it.  I  looked  upon  it  then  as  a 
degradation.  I  see  it  differently  now.  I  have 
worked  with  all  my  might  all  summer,  and  I  have 
brought  back  a  whole  lot  of  sketches  that  the  boys 
like.  Now  I  am  going  to  work  again  with  Mr.  Slade. 
I  do  not  like  his  work,  and  I  do  love  mine,  but  I  am 
going  to  stick  to  his  all  the  same.  I  have  got  some 
thing  to  work  for  nowr,"  and  his  face  brightened. 
"  I  am  going  to  win !  " 

She  did  not  interrupt  him.  It  was  better  he 
should  unburden  his  heart.  She  was  satisfied  with 
his  record;  if  he  went  wrong  she  only  was  to  blame. 
But  he  was  not  going  wrong;  nor  was  there  any 
thing  to  worry  about — not  even  his  art — not  so  long 
as  he  kept  his  place  with  Mr.  Slade  and  only  took  it 
up  as  a  relaxation  from  more  weighty  cares.  It  was 
only  the  girl  that  caused  her  a  moment's  thought. 

She  saw  too,  through  all  his  outburst,  a  certain  in 
dependence  and  a  fearlessness  and  a  certain  fixed 
ness  of  purpose  that  sent  an  exultant  thrill  through 

366 


COALS  FROM  MISS  CLEXDEXXIXG'S  F1RB 

her  even  when  her  heart  was  burdened  with  the 
thought  of  this  new  danger  that  threatened  him. 
She  had  sent  him  away  for  the  fault  of  instability, 
and  he  had  overcome  it.  Should  she  not  now  hold 
fast,  as  she  had  before,  and  save  him  the  second  time 
from  this  girl  who  was  beneath  him  in  station  and 
who  would  drag  him  down  to  her  level,  and  so  per 
haps  ruin  him? 

"  We  will  not  talk  any  more  about  it  to-night,  my 
son,"  she  said,  in  tender  tones,  leaning  forward  and 
kissing  him  on  the  cheek — it  was  through  his  affec 
tion'*  that  she  controlled  him.  "You  should  be 
tired  out  with  your  day's  journey  and  ought  to  rest. 
Take  my  advice — do  not  ask  her  to  be  your  wife  yet. 
Think  about  it  a  little  and  see  some  other  women 
before  you  make  up  your  mind." 

A  delicious  tremor  passed  through  Oliver.  He 
Jiad  asked  her,  and  she  had  promised!  He  remem 
bered  just  the  very  day,  the  hour,  the  minute.  That 
was  the  bliss  of  it  all!  But  this  he  did  not  tell  his 
mother.  He  would  not  hurt  her  any  further  now. 
Some  other  day  he  would  tell  her;  when  she  could 
see  Madge  and  judge  for  herself.  Xo,  not  to-night, 
and  so  with  the  secret  untold  he  kissed  her  and  led 
her  to  her  room. 

And  yet  strange  to  say  it  was  the  one  only  thing 
in  all  his  life  that  he  had  kept  from  her. 

lii !  these  mothers !  who  make  lovers  of  their  only 

sons,  dominating  their  lives!     How  bitter  must  be 

367 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

the  hours  when  they  realize  that  another's  arms  are 
opening  for  them! 

And  these  boys — what  misgivings  come;  what 
doubts.  How  the  old  walls,  impregnable  from  child 
hood,  begin  to  crumble!  How  little  now  the  dear 
mother  knows — she  so  wise  but  a  few  moons  since. 
How  this  new  love  steps  in  front  of  the  old  love  and 
claims  every  part  of  the  boy  as  its  very  own. 

Faithful  to  her  promise,  Miss  Clendenning  waited 
the  next  morning  for  Oliver  in  her  little  boudoir 
that  opened  out  of  the  library.  A  bright  fire  blazed 
and  crackled,  sending  its  beams  dancing  over  the 
room  and  lighting  up  the  red  curtains  that  hung 
behind  her  writing-desk,  its  top  covered  with  opened 
letters — her  morning's  mail:  many  bore  foreign 
postmarks,  and  not  a  few  were  emblazoned  with  ram 
pant  crests  sunk  in  little  dabs  of  colored  wrax.  She 
wore  a  morning  gown  of  soft  white  flannel  belted  in 
at  the  waist.  Covering  her  head  and  wound  loosely 
about  her  throat  was  a  fluff  of  transparent  silk,  half- 
concealing  the  two  nests  of  little  gray  and  brown 
knots  impaled  on  hair-pins.  These  were  the  chrys 
alides  of  those  gay  butterfly  side-curls  which  framed 
her  sweet  face  at  night  and  to  which  she  never  gave 
wing  until  after  luncheon,  no  matter  who  called. 
The  silk  scarf  that  covered  them  this  morning  was 
in  recognition  of  Oliver's  sex. 

Sho  had  finished  her  breakfast  and  was  leaning  for- 
3C8 


COALS  FROM  MISS  CLEXDEXXING'S  FIEE 

ward  in  her  rocking-chair,  her  elbows  on  her  knees, 
her  tiny  feet  resting  on  the  fender.  She  was  watch 
ing  the  fire-fairies  at  work  building  up  their  wonder 
ful  palaces  of  molten  gold  studded  with  opals  and 
rubies.  The  little  lady  must  have  been  in  deep 
thought,  for  she  did  not  know  Oliver  had  entered 
until  she  felt  his  arm  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Ah,  you  dear  fellow.  No,  not  there ;  sit  right 
here  on  this  cricket  by  my  side.  Stop,  do  not  say 
a  word.  I  have  been  studying  it  all  out  in  these 
coals.  I  know  all  about  it — it  is  about  the  mountain 
girl^this — what  do  you  call  her?" 

"  Miss  Grant." 

"^Nonsense!     What  do  you  call  her 2" 

"  Madge." 

"  Ah,  that's  something  like  it.  And  you  love 
her?" 

"  Yes."     (Pianissimo.) 

"  And  she  loves  you'?  " 

"  Yes."     (Forte.) 

"And  you  have  told  her  so?" 

"YES!"     (Fortissimo.) 

"  Whew!  "  Miss  Clendenning  caught  her  breath 
and  gave  a  little  gasp.  "  Well,  upon  my  word! 
You  don't  seem  to  have  lost  any  time,  my  young 
Romeo.  What  does  her  father  say?  " 

"  lie  doesn't  know  anything  about  it." 

"  Does   anybody   except  you   two   babes   in    the 

wood? » 

369 


THE  FOETUSES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  Yes,  her  mother." 

"And  yours?  You  told  her  last  night.  I  knew 
you  would." 

"  Not  everything;  but  she  is  all  upset." 

"  Of  course  she  is.  So  am  I.  Now  tell  me — is 
she  a  lady?" 

"  She  is  the  dearest,  sweetest  girl  you " 

"  Come  now,  come  now,  answer  me.  They  are  all 
the  dearest  and  sweetest  things  in  the  world.  What 
I  want  to  know  is,  is  she  a  lady  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"True  now,  Ollie— honest ?" 

"  Yes,  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  A  woman  you 
would  love  and  be  proud  of  the  moment  you  saw 
her." 

Miss  Clendenning  took  his  face  in  her  hands  and 
looked  down  into  his  eyes.  "  I  believe  you.  Now 
what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  want  her  to  come  down  here  so  everybody  can 
see  her.  If  I  had  a  sister  she  could  invite  her,  and 
it  would  be  all  right,  and  maybe  then  her  mother 
would  let  her  come." 

"  And  you  want  me  to  play  the  sister  and  have 
her  come  here  ?  " 

Oliver's  fingers  closed  tight  over  Miss  Clenden- 
ning's  hand.  "  Oh,  Midget,  if  you  only  would,  that 
would  fix  everything.  Mother  would  understand 
then  why  I  love  her,  and  Madge  could  go  back  and 
tel]  her  people  about  us.  Her  father  is  very  bitter 

370 


COALS  FKOM  MISS  CLEKDEKNTOG'S  FIKE 

against  everybody  at  the  South.  They  would  feel 
differently  if  Madge  could  stay  a  week  with  us." 

"  Why  won't  her  father  bring  her?  " 

"  He  never  leaves  home.  He  would  not  even  take 
her  to  the  mountains,  fifteen  miles  away.  She  could 
never  paint  as  she  does  if  she  had  relied  upon  him. 
Mother  and  Mr.  Grant  are  both  alike  in  their  hatred 
•of  art  as  a  fitting  profession  for  anybody,  and  I  tell 
you  that  they  are  both  wrong." 

Miss  Clendenning  looked  up  in  surprise.  She  had 
never  seen  the  boy  take  a  stand  of  this  kind  against 
on,e  of  his  mother's  opinions.  Oliver  saw  the  ex 
pression  on  the  little  lady's  face  and  kept  on,  his 
cheeks  flushed  and  a  set  look  about  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,  wrong.  I  have  never  believed  mother  could 
be  wrong  in  anything  before,  and  when  she  wanted 
me  to  give  up  painting  I  did  so  because  I  thought 
she  knew  best.  But  I  know  she's  not  right  about 
Madge,  and  if  she  is  wrong  about  her,  how  do  I 
know  she  was  not  wrong  about  my  working  with  Mr. 
Crocker?  " 

Margaret's  words  that  day  in  the  bark  slant  were 
now  ringing  in  his  ears.  He  had  never  forgotten 
them — "  Your  mother  cannot  coddle  you  up  for 
ever." 

Miss  Clendenning  held  her  peace.  She  was  not 
astonished  at  the  revolt  in  the  boy's  mind.  She  had 
seen  for  months  past  in  his  letters  that  Oliver's  in 
dividuality  was  asserting  itself.  It  was  the  new  girl 

371 


THE  FOETUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

whom  lie  was  defending — the  woman  he  loved.  This 
had  given  him  strength.  She  knew  something  of 
what  he  felt,  and  she  knew  what  blind  obedience  had 
done  for  her.  With  a  half-smothered  sigh,  she 
reached  over  Oliver's  head,  dipped  a  quill  pen  in  her 
inkstand,  and  at  Oliver's  dictation,  wrote  Margaret's 
address. 

"  I  will  invite  her  at  once,"  she  said. 

Long  after  Oliver  had  gone  Miss  Clendenning  sat 
looking  into  the  fire.  The  palaces  of  rose  and  amber 
that  the  busy  fingers  of  the  fire  fairies  had  built  up 
in  the  white  heat  of  their  enthusiasm  were  in  ruins. 
The  light  had  gone  out.  Only  gray  ashes  remained, 
with  here  and  there  a  dead  cinder. 

Miss  Clendenning  rose  from  her  chair,  stood  a 
moment  in  deep  thought,  and  said,  aloud: 

"  If  she  loves  him,  she  shall  have  him.  There  shall 
be  no  more  desolate  firesides  if  I  can  help  it." 

Eariy  the  next  morning,  she  mailed  by  the  first  post 
a  letter  so  dainty  in  form  and  so  delicate  in  color 
that  only  a  turtle-dove  should  have  carried  it  to 
Brookfield  Farm,  and  have  dropped  it  into  Margar 
et's  hand.  This  billet-doux  began  by  inviting  Miss 
Margaret  Grant  of  Brookfield  Farm  to  pass  a  week 
with  Miss  Lavinia  Clendenning,  of  Kennedy  Square, 
she,  Miss  Lavinia,  desiring  to  know  the  better  one 
who  had  so  charmed  and  delighted  "  our  dear  Oli 
ver,"  and  ended  with  "  Please  say  to  your  good 

372 


COALS  FROM  MISS  CLEKDENKQsTG'S  FIRE 

mother,  that  I  am  twice  your  age,  and  will  take  as 
much  care  of  you  as  if  you  were  my  own  daughter. 
I  feel  assured  she  will  waive  all  ceremony  when  she 
thinks  of  how  warm  a  greeting  awaits  you." 

Margaret  looked  at  the  post-mark,  and  then  at  the 
little  oval  of  violet  wax  bearing  the  crest  of  the  Clen- 
dennings — granted  in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
-for  distinguished  services  to  the  Throne — and  after 
she  had  read  it  to  her  mother,  and  had  shown  the  seal 
to  her  father,  who  had  put  on  his  glasses,  scanned  it 
closely,  and  tossed  it  back  to  her  with  a  dry  laugh, 
and*after  she  had  talked  it  all  over  with  John,  who 
said  it  was  certainly  very  kind  of  the  woman,  and 
that  Oliver's  people  were  evidently  "  nobs,"  but,  of 
course,  Madge  eouldn't  go,  not  knowing  any  of  them, 
Margaret  took  a  sheet  of  plain  white  paper  from  her 
desk,  thanked  Miss  Clendenning  for  her  kind  thought 
of  her,  and  declined  the  honor  in  a  firm,  round  hand. 
This  she  closed  with  a  red  wafer,  and  then,  with  a 
little  bridling  of  her  head  and  a  determined  look  in 
her  face,  she  laid  the  letter  on  the  gate-post,  ready  for 
the  early  stage  in  the  morning. 

This  missive  was  duly  received  by  Miss  Clenden 
ning,  and  read  at  once  to  Mrs.  Horn,  who  raised 
her  eyebrows  and  pursed  her  lips  in  deep  thought. 
After  some  moments  she  looked  over  her  glasses  at 
Miss  Lavinia  and  said: 

"  I  must  say,  Lavinia,  I  am  very  greatly  astonished. 

Won't  come  ?    She  has  done  perfectly  right.    I  think 

373 


THE  FOETUSES  OE  OLIVER  HORN" 

all  the  better  of  her  for  it.  Really,  there  may  ba 
something  in  the  girl  after  all.  Let  me  look  at  her 
handwriting  again — writes  like  a  woman  of  some 
force.  Won't  come  ?  What  do  you  think,  Lavinia  ?  " 
"Merely  a  question  of  grandmothers,  my  dear; 
she  seems  to  have  had  one,  too,"  answered  the  little 
old  maid,  with  a  quizzical  smile  in  her  eye,  as  she 
folded  the  letter  and  slipped  it  in  her  pocket. 


CHAPTEK  XVIII 

THE     LAST     HOURS     OF     A     CIVILIZATION' 

Margaret's  decision  saddened  Oliver's  last  days  at 
home,  and  he  returned  to  New  York  with  none  of 
his  former  buoyancy.  Here  other  troubles  began  to 
multiply.  Before  the  autumn  was  gone,  Morton, 
Slade  &  Co.,  unable  longer  to  make  headway  against 
the  financial  difficulties  that  beset  them,  went  to  the 
wall,  involving  many  of  their  fellow-merchants.  Oli 
ver  lost  his  situation,  in  consequence,  and  was  forced 
to  support  himself  during  the  long  dreary  winter  by 
making  lithographic  drawings  for  Bianchi,  at  prices 
that  barely  paid  his  board.  His  loneliness  in  the  garret 
room  became  more  intense,  Fred  being  much  away 
and  the  occupants  of  the  other  rooms  being  either 
strangers  to  him  or  so  uncongenial  that  he  would  not 
make  their  acquaintance. 

To  his  own  troubles  were  added  other  anxieties. 
The  political  outlook  had  become  even  more  gloomy 
than  the  financial.  The  roar  of  Sumter's  guns  had  re 
verberated  throughout  the  land,  and  men  of  all  minds 
were  holding  their  breath  and  listening,  with  ears 
to  the  ground,  for  the  sound  of  the  next  shot.  Even 
Margaret's  letters  were  full  of  foreboding.  "  Father 

is  more  bitter  against  the   South  than  ever,"  she 

375 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

wrote.  "  He  says  if  he  had  ten  sons  each  should 
shoulder  a  musket.  We  must  wait,  Ollie  dear.  I 
can  only  talk  to  mother  about  you.  Father  won't 
tisten,  and  I  never  mention  your  name  before  him, 
Not  because  it  is  you,  Ollie,  but  because  you  repre 
sent  a  class  whom  he  hates.  Dear  John  would  listen, 
but  he  is  still  in  Boston.  Even  his  fellow-classmen 
want  to  fight,  he  says.  I  fear  all  this  will  hurt  my 
work,  and  keep  me  from  painting." 

These  letters  of  Margaret's,  sad  as  they  were,  were 
iis  greatest  and  sometimes  his  only  comfort.  She 
knew  his  ups  and  downs  and  they  must  have  no 
secrets  from  each  other.  From  his  mother,  however, 
he  kept  all  records  of  his  privations  during  these 
troublous  months.  Neither  his  father  nor  his  dear 
mother  must  deprive  themselves  for  his  benefit. 

During  these  dreary  days  he  often  longed  for  Ken 
nedy  Square  and  for  those  whom  he  loved,  but  it  was 
aot  until  one  warm  spring  day,  when  the  grass  wras 
struggling  into  life,  and  the  twigs  on  the  scraggy  trees 
in  Union  Square  were  growing  pink  and  green  with 
impatient  buds  and  leaves  that  he  had  his  wish. 
Then  a  startling  telegram  summoned  him.  It  read  as 
follows : 

"  Father  ill.    Come  at  once. 

"  MOTHER." 

Instinctively  Oliver  felt  in  his  pockets  for  his 
purse.  There  was  just  money  enough  to  take  him  to 

Kennedy  Square  and  back. 

376 


THE  LAST  HOURS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

His  mother  met  him  at  the  door. 

"  It  was  only  a  fainting  turn,  my  son,"  were  her 
first  words.  "  I  am  sorry  I  sent  for  you.  Your 
father  is  himself  again,  so  Dr.  Wallace  says.  He  has 
been  working  too  hard  lately — sometimes  far  into  the 
night.  I  could  have  stopped  you  from  coming;  but, 
somehow,  I  wanted  you — "  and  she  held  him  close  in 
"her  arms,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his.  "  I  get  so 
lonely,  my  boy,  and  feel  so  helpless  sometimes." 

The  weak  and  strong  were  changing  places.  She 
felt  the  man  in  him  now. 

^Nathan  was  in  the  library.  He  and  Malachi  had 
been  taking  turns  at  Richard's  bedside.  Malachi  had 
not  closed  his  eyes  all  night.  Nathan  came  out  into 
the  hall  when  he  heard  Oliver's  voice,  and  put  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  We  had  a  great  scare,  Ollie,"  he  said,  "  but  he's 
all  right  again,  thank  God!  He's  asleep  now — better 
not  wake  him."  Then  he  put  on  his  coat  and  went 
home. 

Malachi  shook  his  head.  "  Sumpin's  de  matter  wid 
him,  an'  dis  ain't  de  las'  ob  it.  Drapped  jes'  like  a 
shote  when  he's  hit,  Marse  Oliver,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
whisper,  as  if  afraid  of  disturbing  his  master  on  the 
floor  above.  "  I  was  a-layin'  out  his  clo'es  an'  he 
called  quick  like,  '  Malachi !  Malachi !  '  an'  when  I  go  u 
dar,  he  was  lyin'  on  de  flo'  wid  his  head  on  de  mat. 
I  ain't  nebber  seen  Marse  Richard  do  like  dat 
hefo' — "  The  old  servant  trembled  as  he  spoke.  He 

377 


THE  FOKTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

evidently  did  not  share  Nathan's  hopeful  views>, 
Neither  did  Dr.  Wallace,  although  he  did  not  say  so 
to  anyone. 

Their  fears,  however,  were  not  realized.  Richard 
not  only  revived,  but  by  the  end  of  the  week  he  was 
in  the  drawing-room  again,  Malachi,  in  accordance 
with  the  time-honored  custom,  wheeling  out  his  chair, 
puffing  up  the  cushions,  and,  writh  a  wave  of  the  hand 
and  a  sweeping  bow,  saying: 

"  Yo'  ch'ar's  all  ready,  Marse  Richard.  Hope 
you'se  feelin'  fine  dis  evenin',  sah!  " 

The  following  day  he  was  in  his  "  liT  room,"  Oli 
ver  helping  him.  It  was  the  lifting  of  the  heavy 
plate  of  the  motor  that  had  hurt  Richard,  so  Nathan 
told  him;  not  the  same  motor  which  Oliver  remem 
bered:  another,  much  larger  and  built  on  different 
lines.  The  inventor  now  used  twenty-four  cells 
instead  of  ten,  and  the  magnets  had  been  wrapped 
with  finer  wire. 

These  days  in  the  shop  were  delightful  to  Oliver. 
His  father  no  longer  treated  him  as  an  inexperienced 
youth,  but  as  his  equal.  "  I  hope  you  will  agree  with 
me,  my  son,"  he  would  say ;  or,  "  What  do  you  think 
of  the  idea  of  using  a  '  cam  '  here  instead  of  a  lever?  " 
or,  "  I  wish  you  would  find  the  last  issue  of  the  Re 
view,  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  that  article  of  Lat- 
robe's.  He  puts  the  case  very  clearly,  it  seems  to 
me,"  etc.  And  Oliver  wrould  bend  his  head  in  atten 
tion  and  try  to  follow  his  father's  lead,  wishing  all  the 

0^0 

o  <  o 


THE  LAST  HOURS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

time  that  lie  could  really  be  of  use  to  the  man  he  re 
vered  beyond  all  others,  and  so  lighten  some  of  the 
burdens  that  were  weighing  him  down. 

And  none  the  less  joyful  were  the  hours  spent  with 
his  mother.  All  the  old-time  affection,  the  devotion 
of  a  lover-son,  were  lavished  upon  her.  And  she  was 
so  supremely  happy  in  it  all.  Xow  that  Richard  had! 
recovered,  there  was  no  other  cloud  on  her  horizon, 
not  even  that  of  the  dreaded  mortgage  which  owing 
to  some  payments  made  Richard  by  a  company  using 
one  of  his  patents  had  been  extended  and  its  interest 
paid  for  two  years  in  advance  in  deference  to  her 
urgent  request.  All  anxiety  as  to  the  Xorthern  girl 
had  happily  passed  out  of  her  mind.  If  Oliver  in-1 
tended  marrying  Miss  Grant  he  would  have  told  her, 
she  knew.  Then  again,  he  was  so  much  stronger  and 
wiser  now — so  much  more  thoughtful  than  he  had 
been — so  much  more  able  to  keep  his  head  in  matters 
of  this  kind. 

As  his  position  was  different  with  his  father  in 
the  "  liT  room  "  and  with  his  mother  in  the  stillness 
of  her  chamber — for  often  they  talked  there  together 
until  far  into  the  night — so  were  his  relations  altered 
with  his  old  friends  and  neighbors  in  the  drawing- 
room.  While  the  young  men  and  girls  filled  the 
house  as  had  always  been  their  custom,  the  older  men, 
as  well,  now  paid  their  respects  to  Richard  Horn's 


son. 
a 


One  of  our  own  kind,"  Judge  Bowman  said  to 
379 


THE  FOKTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Richard.  "  Does  you  credit,  Horn — a  son  to  be 
proud  of."f 

Even  Amos  Cobb  came  to  look  him  over,  a  courtesy 
which  pleased  Richard  who  greatly  admired  the  Ver- 
monter,  and  who  had  not  hesitated  to  express  his 
good  opinion  of  him  on  more  than  one  occasion  before 
his  own  and  Cobb's  friends. 

"  A  man  of  force,  gentlemen,"  Richard  had  said, 
"  of  great  kindness  of  heart  and  with  a  wide  range 
of  vision.  One  who  has  the  clearest  ideas  of  what 
makes  for  the  good  of  his  country;  a  man,  too,  not 
ashamed  of  his  opinions  and  with  ample  courage  to 
defend  them.  He  deserves  our  unqualified  respect, 
tiot  our  criticism." 

When  Cobb  heard  of  Richard's  outspoken  defence 
of  him  he  at  once  called  on  the  inventor  at  his  work 
shop — a  thing  he  had  not  done  for  months,  and  asked 
to  see  the  motor,  and  that  same  night  astonished  the 
circles  about  the  club  tables,  by  remarking,  in  a  tone 
of  voice  loud  enough  for  everybody  to  hear:  "  We 
have  all  been  wrong  about  Horn.  He  has  got  hold 
of  something  that  will  one  day  knock  steam  higher 
than  Gilderoy's  kite."  A  friendship  was  thus  estab 
lished  between  the  two  which  had  become  closer 
every  day — the  friendship  of  a  clearer  understand 
ing  ;  one  which  was  unbroken  during  the  rest  of  their 
lives. 

It  was  quite  natural,  therefore,  that  Amos  Cobb 

should  be  among  Oliver's  earliest  callers.     He  must 

380 


THE  LAST  HOURS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

have  been  pleased  with  his  inspection,  for  he  took  oc 
casion  at  the  club  to  say  to  Colonel  Clayton,  in  his 
quick,  crisp  way: 

"  Dropped  in  at  Horn's  last  night.  His  boy's  over 
from  Xew  York.  Looks  like  a  different  man  sin^e 
he  quit  fooling  round  here  a  couple  of  years  ago. 
Clean  cut  a  young  fellow  as  I've  seen  for  many  a  day. 
Got  a  look  out  of  his  eyes  like  his  mother's.  Level 
headed  woman,  his  mother — no  better  anywhere.  If 
all  the  young  bloods  South  had  Oliver  Horn's  ideas 
we  might  pull  through  this  crisis." 

To  which  my  Lord  Chesterfield  of  Kennedy  Square 
merely  replied  only  with  a  nod  of  the  head  and  a 
drawing  together  of  the  eyebrows.  He  found  it  diffi 
cult  to  tolerate  the  Vermonter  in  these  days  with  his 
continued  tirades  against  "  The  epidemic  of  insanity 
sweeping  over  the  South,"  as  Cobb  would  invariably 
put  it. 

The  scribe  now  reaches  a  night  in  Oliver's  career 
fraught  with  such  momentous  consequences  that  he 
would  be  glad  to  leave  its  story  untold : 

An  unforgettable  night  indeed,  both  for  those 
who  were  assembled  there,  and  for  him  who  is  the 
chronicler.  He  would  fain  lay  down  his  pen  to  re 
call  again  the  charm  and  the  sweetness  and  the  old- 
time  flavor  of  that  drawing-room :  the  soft  lights  of 
the  candles ;  the  perfume  of  the  lilacs  coming  in 
through  the  half -open  windows;  the  merry  laugh 

381 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

of  the  joyous  girl  running  through  the  Square  to 
be  ushered  by  Malachi  a  moment  later  into  the 
presence  of  her  hostess,  there  to  make  her  courte- 
sied  obeisance  before  she  joined  a  group  of  young 
people  around  one  of  the  red  damask-covered  sofas. 
And  then  Richard,  dear  Richard,  with  his  white  hair 
and  his  gracious  speech,  and  Miss  Clendenning  with 
her  manners  of  foreign  courts,  and  the  sweet-voiced 
hostess  of  the  mansion  moving  about  among  her 
guests;  her  guests  who  were  her  neighbors  and  her 
friends;  whose  children  were  like  her  own,  and 
whose  joys  and  sorrows  were  hers — guests,  neigh 
bors,  friends  many  of  whom  after  this  fatal  night 
were  to  be  as  enemies  never  to  assemble  again  with 
the  old-time  harmony  and  love. 

Malachi  had  brewed  the  punch;  the  little  squat 
glasses  were  set  out  beside  the  Canton  china  bowl, 
for  it  was  the  night  of  the  weekly  musical  and  ar 
unusually  brilliant  company  had  assembled  in  honor 
of  Oliver's  arrival  and  of  Richard's  recovery. 

The  inventor  was  to  play  his  own  interpretations 
of  Handel's  Largo,  a  favorite  selection  of  Ole  Bull, 
and  one  which  the  inventor  and  the  great  virtuoso 
had  played  together  some  years  before. 

Miss  Clendenning  had  taken  her  place  at  the 
piano,  Nathan  standing  beside  her  to  turn  the 
leaves  of  the  accompaniment. 

Richard  had  picked  up  his  violin,  tucked  it  under 
his  chin,  poised  the  bow,  and  that  peculiar  hush  which 

382 


THE  LAST  HOUKS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

always  precedes  the  sounding  of  the  first  notes  on 
evenings  of  this  kind  had  already  fallen  upon  the 
room,  when  there  came  a  loud  rap  at  the  front  door 
that  startled  everyone  and  the  next  instant  Colonel 
Clayton  burst  in,  his  cheeks  flaming,  his  hat  still  on 
his  head. 

"  Ten  thousand  Yankees  will  be  here  in  the  morn 
ing,  Horn!  "  he  gasped,  out  of  breath  with  his  run 
across  the  Square,  holding  one  hand  to  his  side  as  he 
spoke,  and  waving  an  open  telegram  in  the  other. 
"  §top !  This  is  no  time  for  fiddling.  They're  not 
going  round  by  water;  they're  coming  here  by  train. 
Read  that,"  and  he  held  out  the  bit  of  paper. 

The  Colonel's  sudden  'entrance  and  the  startling 
character  of  the  news,  had  brought  every  man  to  hia 
feet. 

Richard  laid  down  his  violin,  read  the  telegram 
quietly,  and  handed  it  back. 

"  "Well,  suppose  they  do  come,  Clayton?  " 

His  voice  was  so  sustained,  and  his  manner  so  tem 
perate,  that  a  certain  calming  reassurance  was  felt 

"  Suppose  they  do  come !  They'll  burn  the  town, 
I  tell  you,"  shouted  the  infuriated  man,  suddenly  re 
membering  his  hat  and  handing  it  to  Malachi.  That's 
what  they're  coming  for.  "We  want  no  troops  in  our 
streets,  and  the  Government  ought  to  know  it.  It's 
an  outrage  to  send  armed  men  here  at  this  time!  " 

"  You're  all  wrong,  Clayton,"  answered  Richard, 

without  raising  his  voice.     "  You  have  always  been 

383 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORK 

wrong  about  this  matter.  There  are  two  sides  to  this 
question.  Virginia  troops  occupied  Harper's  Ferry 
yesterday.  If  the  authorities  consider  that  more 
troops  are  needed  to  protect  "Washington,  that's  their 
affair,  not  yours  nor  mine." 

"  We'll  make  it  our  affair.  "What  right  has  this 
damnable  Government  to  march  their  troops  through 
a  free  and  sovereign  State  without  its  permission? 
Whom  do  they  think  this  town  belongs  to,  I  want  to 
know,  that  this  jSTorthern  scum  should  foul  it.  Hot 
a  man  shall  set  foot  here  if  I  can  help  it.  I  would 
xather " 

Richard  turned  to  stay  the  torrent  of  invectives 
in  which  such  words  as  "  renegades,"  "  traitors," 
"  mud-sills,"  were  heard,  but  the  Colonel,  completely 
unmanned  by  the  rage  he  was  in,  and  seemingly  un 
conscious  of  the  presence  of  the  ladies,  waved  him 
aside  with  his  hand,  and  faced  the  row  of  frightened, 
expectant  faces. 

"  Gentlemen,  when  you  are  through  with  this  tom 
foolery,  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  come  to  the  club; 
any  of  you  who  have  got  guns  had  better  look  them 
up;  they'll  be  wanted  before  this  is  over.  We'll  meet 
these  dirty  skinflints  with  cold  lead  and  plenty  of 
it." 

Oliver's  face  flushed  at  the  Colonel's  words,  and 
he  was  about  to  speak,  when  his  mother  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm.  Visions  of  the  kindly  face  of  Professor 

Cummings,  and  the  strong  well-knit  figure  of  Fred 

384 


THE  LAST  HOURS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

Stone,  John  Grant,  Hank,  Jonathan  Gordon,  and  the 
others  whom  he  loved  came  before  his  eyes. 

Richard  raised  his  hand  in  protest: 

"  You  are  mad,  Clayton;  you  don't  know  what  you 
are  doing.  Stop  these  troops  and  our  streets  will  run 
blood.  I  beg  and  beseech  you  to  keep  cool.  Because 
South  Carolina  has  lost  her  head,  that  is  no  reason 
why  we  should.  This  is  not  our  fight!  If  my  State 
called  me  to  defend  her  against  foreign  invasion,  old 
as  I  am  I  would  be  ready,  and  so  should  you.  But 
ih$  Government  is  part  of  ourselves,  and  should  not 
be  looked  upon  as  an  enemy.  You  are  wrong,  I  tell 
you,  Clayton." 

"  Wrong  or  right,  they'll  have  to  walk  over  my 
dead  body  if  they  attempt  to  cross  the  streets  of  this 
town.  That's  my  right  as  a  citizen,  and  that  I  shall 
maintain.  Gentlemen,  I  have  called  a  meeting  at  the 
club  at  ten  o'clock  to-night.  All  of  you  able  to  carry 
a  gun  will  do  me  the  kindness  to  be  present.  I'd 
rather  die  right  here  in  my  tracks  than  let  a  lot  of 
low-lived  mud-sills  who  never  entered  a  gentleman's 
house  in  their  lives  come  down  here  at  the  beck  and 
call  of  this  rail-splitter  they've  put  in  the  "White 
House  and  walk  over  us  rough-shod!  And  you, 
Horn,  a  Virginian,  defend  it!  By  God,  sir,  it's 
enough  to  make  a  man's  blood  boil !  " 

The  inventor's  eyes  flashed.  They  blazed  now  as 
brightly  as  those  of  Clayton.  "Not  even  a  life-long 
friend  had  the  right  to  use  such  language  in  his  pres- 

385 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

ence,  or  in  that  of  his  guests.  Richard's  figure  gre\v 
tense  with  indignation.  Confronting  the  now  reck 
less  man,  he  raised  his  hand  and  was  about  to  order 
him  out  of  the  house  when  Oliver  stepped  quickly  in 
front  of  his  father. 

"  You  are  unjust,  Colonel  Clayton."  The  words 
came  slowly  between  the  boy's  partly  closed  teeth. 
"  You  know  nothing  of  these  people.  I  have  lived 
among  them  long  enough  not  only  to  know  but  to 
love  them.  There  are  as  many  gentlemen  North  as 
South.  If  you  would  go  among  them  as  I  have  done. 
you  would  be  man  enough  to  admit  it." 

The  Colonel  turned  upon  him  with  a  snarl: 

"  And  so  you  have  become  a  dirty  renegade,  have 
you,  and  gone  back  on  your  blood  and  your  State? 
That's  what  comes  of  sending  boys  like  you  away 
from  home !  " 

The  guests  stood  amazed.  The  spectacle  of  the 
most  courteous  man  of  his  time  acting  like  a  black 
guard  was  more  astounding  than  the  news  he  had 
brought.  Even  Malachi,  at  the  open  door,  trembled 
with  fear. 

As  the  words  fell  from  his  lips  Mrs.  Horn's  firm, 
clear  voice,  crying  "  Shame !  Shame !  "  rang  through 
the  room.  She  had  risen  from  her  seat  and 
was  walking  rapidly  to  where  the  Colonel  was 
standing. 

"  Shame,  I  say,  John  Clayton!     How  dare  you 

speak  so  ?    What  has  our  young  son  ever  done  to  you. 

386 


THE  LAST  HOUKS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

that  you  should  insult  him  in  his  father's  house? 
What  madness  has  come  over  you?  " 

The  horrified  guests  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 
Every  eye  was  fixed  on  the  Colonel,  shaking  with 
rage. 

For  a  brief  instant  he  faced  his  hostess,  started  to 
speak,  checked  himself  as  if  some  better  judgment 
prevailed,  and  with  upraised  hands  flung  himself 
from  the  room,  shouting,  as  he  went: 

"Ten  o'clock,  gentlemen!  Chesapeake  Club! 
£very  man  with  a  gun !  " 

Kichard,  astounded  at  Clayton's  action  and  now 
jhoroughly  convinced  of  the  danger  of  the  situation 
and  determined  to  do  what  he  could  to  thwart  the 
efforts  of  such  men  as  the  Colonel  and  his  following, 
laid  his  violin  in  its  case,  turned  to  his  frightened 
guests  and  with  a  few  calming  words  and  a  promise 
to  send  each  one  of  them  word  if  any  immediate 
danger  existed,  called  Oliver  and  Nathan  to  him, 
and  taking  his  cloak  and  hat  from  Malachi's  out 
stretched  trembling  hands  started  for  the  club. 
Once  outside  it  was  easy  to  see  that  a  feeling  of 
intense  and  ominous  excitement  was  in  the  air. 
Even  on  the  sidewalk  and  on  the  street  corners,  men 
stood  silent,  huddled  together,  their  eyes  on  the 
ground,  the  situation  being  too  grave  for  spoken 
words. 

C.n  arriving  they  found  its  halls  already  filled 
with  angry  and  excited  men  discussing  the  threat- 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

ened  invasion,  many  of  whom  met  the  young  man 
with  scowling  looks,  the  Colonel  having  evidently 
informed  them  of  Oliver's  protest. 

A  few  of  the  members  had  brought  their  sporting 
guns.  These  had  been  handed  to  the  gouty  old  por 
ter,  who,  half -frightened  out  of  his  wits,  had  stacked 
them  in  a  row  against  the  wall  of  the  outer  hall. 
Billy  Talbot  arrived  a  few  moments  later  carrying 
a  heavy  fowling-piece  loaded  for  swan.  He  had  been 
dining  out  when  summoned  and  had  hurriedly  left 
the  table,  excusing  himself  on  the  ground  that  he  had 
been  "  called  to  arms."  He  had  taken  time,  however, 
to  stop  at  his  own  house,  slip  out  of  his  English  dress- 
suit  and  into  a  brown  ducking  outfit. 

"  We'll  shoot  'em  on  the  run,  damn  'em — like  rab 
bits,  sir,"  he  said  to  Cobb  as  he  entered,  the  Ver- 
monter  being  the  only  man  likely  to  communicate 
with  the  invaders  and  so  make  known  the  warlike  in 
tentions  of  at  least  one  citizen,  and  the  utter  hope 
lessness  of  any  prolonged  resistance.  Waggles,  who 
had  followed  close  on  his  master's  heels,  was  too  ex 
cited  to  sit  down,  but  stood  on  three  legs,  his  eye 
turned  toward  Talbot,  as  if  wanting  to  pick  up  any 
game  which  Billy's  trusty  fowling-piece  might  bring 
down. 

A  quiet,  repressed  smile  passed  over  Oliver's 
face  as  he  watched  Waggles  and  his  master,  but 
he  spoke  no  word  to  the  Nimrod.  He  could  not 
help  thinking  how  Hank  Pollard  would  handle  the 

388 


THE  LAST  HOURS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

fashion-plate  if  he  ever  closed  his  great  bony  hands 
upon  him. 

Judge  Bowman  now  joined  the  group,  bowing  to 
Richard  rather  coldly  and  planting  himself  squarely 
in  front  of  Oliver. 

"  There's  only  one  side  to  this  question,  young 
man,  for  you,"  he  said.  "  Don't  be  fooled  by  those 
fellows  up  in  "New  York.  I  know  them — known  them 
for  years.  Look  up  there  " — and  he  pointed  to  the 
portrait  of  Oliver's  ancestor  above  the  mantel. 
"  What  do  you  think  he  would  do  if  he  were  alive 
to-day?  Stick  to  your  own,  my  boy — stick  to  your 
own!  " 

General  Mactavish  now  hurried  in,  drawing  off 
his  white  gloves  as  he  entered  the  room,  followed  by 
Tom  Gunning,  Carter  Thorn,  and  Mowbray,  an  up- 
country  man.  The  four  had  been  dining  together 
and  had  also  left  the  table  on  receipt  of  the  Colonel's 
message.  They  evidently  appreciated  the  gravity  of 
the  situation,  for  they  stood  just  outside  the  excited 
group  that  filled  the  centre  of  the  large  room,  listen- 
ing  eagerly  to  Richard's  clear  tones  pleading  for 
moderation — "  in  a  crisis  which,"  he  urged,  "  re 
quired  the  greatest  public  restraint  and  self-control," 
and  which  would  surely  "plunge  the  State  into 
the  most  horrible  of  wars n  if  those  about  him 
listened  to  the  counsels  of  such  men  as  Clayton  anA 
Judge  Bowman. 

During  the  whole  discussion  Amos  Cobb  stood 
336  - 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

silent,  leaning  against  the  mantel-piece,  his  cold  gray 
eyes  fixed  on  the  excited  throng,  his  thin  lips  curling 
now  and  then.  "When  the  Defence  Committee,  in 
spite  of  Richard's  protest,  had  at  last  been  formed, 
and  its  members  formally  instructed  to  meet  the 
enemy  outside  the  city  and  protest,  first  by  voice  and 
then,  if  necessary,  by  arms,  against  the  unwarrant 
able  invasion  of  the  soil  of  their  State,  the  Vermonter 
buttoned  up  his  coat  slowly,  one  button  after  another, 
fastened  each  one  with  a  determined  gesture,  drew  on 
his  gloves,  set  his  lips  tight,  singled  out  Oliver  and 
Richard,  shook  their  hands  with  the  greatest  warmth, 
and  walked  straight  out  of  the  club-house.  Some 
time  during  the  night  he  drove  in  a  hack  to  Mr. 
Stiger's  house;  roused  the  old  cashier  from  his  sleep; 
took  him  and  the  big  walled-town-key  down  to  the 
bank;  unlocked  the  vault  and  dragged  from  it  two 
wooden  boxes  filled  with  gold  coin,  his  own  property, 
and  which  the  month  before  he  had  deposited  there 
for  safe-keeping.  These,  with  Stiger's  assistance,  he 
carried  to  the  hack.  "Within  the  hour,  the  two  boxes 
with  their  contents  were  locked  up  in  a  bureau-drawer 
in  his  own  house  awaiting  their  immediate  shipment 
to  New  York. 

The  next  morning  Malachi's  wizened  face  was 
thrust  inside  Oliver's  bedroom  door.  He  was  shak 
ing  with  terror,  his  eyes  almost  starting  from  his 

head. 

39ft 


THE  LAST  HOUKS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

"  Marse  Ollie,  Marse  Ollie,  git  up  quick  as  you  kin! 
De  Yankees  is  come;  de  town  is  black  wid  'em!  " 

Oliver  sprang  from  his  bed  and  stood  half-dazed 
looking  into  Malachi's  eyes. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?    Who  told  you  ?  " 

"  I  done  seen  'em.  Been  up  since  daylight.  Dey 
got  guns  wid  'em.  Fo'  Gawd  dis  is  tur-ble!  "  The 
old  man's  voice  trembled — he  could  hardly  articu 
late. 

Oliver  hurried  into  his  clothes ;  stepped  noiselessly 
downstairs  so  as  not  to  wake  his  father  and  mother, 
and,  closing  the  front  door  softly  behind  him,  stood 
for  a  moment  on  the  top  step.  Should  he  forget  the 
insults  of  the  night  before  and  go  straight  to  Colonel 
Clayton,  and  try  to  dissuade  him  from  his  purpose,  or 
should  he  find  the  regiment  and  warn  them  of  their 
danger? 

A  vague  sense  of  personal  responsibility  for  what 
ever  the  day  might  bring  forth  took  possession  of  him 
- — as  though  the  turning-point  in  his  life  had  come, 
without  his  altogether  realizing  it.  These  men  from 
the  North  were  coming  to  his  own  town,  where  he 
had  been  born  and  brought  up,  and  where  they  should 
be  hospitably  received.  If  Clayton  had  his  way  they 
would  be  met  with  clenched  hands  and  perhaps  with 
blows.  That  these  invaders  were  armed,  and  that 
each  man  carried  forty  rounds  of  ammunition  and 
was  perfectly  able  to  take  care  of  himself,  did  not 

impress  him.     He  only  remembered  that  they  were 

391 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

of  the  same  blood  as  the  men  who  had  befriended 
him,  and  that  they  were  in  great  personal  danger. 

The  angry  shouts  of  a  crowd  of  men  and  boys  ap 
proaching  the  Square  from  a  side  street,  now  at 
tracted  his  attention.  They  rushed  past  Oliver  with 
out  noticing  him,  and,  hurrying  on  through  the  gate, 
crossed  the  park,  in  the  direction  of  the  railroad 
station  and  the  docks.  One  of  the  mob,  lacking  a 
club,  stopped  long  enough  to  wrench  a  paling  from 
the  rickety  fence  enclosing  the  Square,  trampling  the 
pretty  crocuses  and  the  yellow  tulips  under  foot. 
Each  new  arrival,  seeing  the  gap,  followed  the  first 
man's  example,  throwing  the  branches  and  tendrils 
to  the  ground  as  they  worked,  until  the  whole  panel 
was  wrecked  and  the  vines  were  torn  from  their  roots. 
As  they  swept  by  the  Clayton  house,  half  a  dozen 
men,  led  by  the  Colonel,  ran  down  the  steps  and 
joined  the  throng. 

Oliver,  seeing  now  that  all  his  efforts  for  peace 
would  be  hopeless,  ran  through  the  Square  close  be 
hind  the  shouting  mob,  dashed  down  a  side  street 
parallel  to  that  through  which  the  cars  carrying  the 
troops  were  to  pass  on  their  way  to  Washington, 
turned  into  an  alley,  and  found  himself  on  the  water 
front,  opposite  one  of  the  dock  slips. 

These  slips  were  crowded  with  vessels,  their  bow 
sprits,  like  huge  bayonets,  thrust  out  over  the  car- 
tracks,  as  if  to  protect  the  cellars  of  the  opposite 

warehouses,  used  by  the  ship-chandlers  for  the  stor- 

392 


age  of  coarse  merchandise,  and  always  left  open 
during  the  day.  The  narrow  strip  of  dock-front, 
between  the  car-tracks  and  the  water-line — an  un- 
paved  strip  of  foot-trodden  earth  and  rotting  planks, 
on  which  lay  enormous  ship-anchors,  anchor-chains 
in  coils,  piles  of  squared  timber,  and  other  maritime 
properties,  stored  here  for  years — was  now  a  seething 
mass  of  people  completely  hiding  the  things  on 
which  they  stood. 

Oliver  mounted  a  pile  of  barrels  in  front  of  one 
of  tfiese  ship-chandler  cellars,  and,  holding  to  an  awn 
ing-post,  looked  off  over  the  heads  of  the  surging 
crowd  and  in  the  direction  of  the  railroad  station 
at  the  end  of  the  long  street.  From  his  position  on 
the  top  barrel  he  could  see  the  white  steam  of  the 
locomotives  rising  above  the  buildings  and  the  line 
of  cars.  He  could  see,  too,  a  yard  engine  backing 
and  puffing,  as  if  making  up  a  train. 

Suddenly,  without  apparent  cause,  there  rose 
above  the  murmurs  of  the  street  an  ominous  sound, 
like  that  of  a  fierce  wind  soughing  through  a  forest  of 
pines.  All  eyes  were  directed  down  the  long  street 
upon  a  line  of  cars  that  had  been  shunted  on  the 
street-track;  about  these  moved  a  group  of  men  in 
blue  uniforms,  the  sun  flashing  on  their  bayonets 
and  the  brass  shields  of  their  belts. 

Oliver,  stirred  by  the  sound,  climbed  to  the  top  of 
the  awning-post  for  a  better  view  and  clung  to  the 

cross-piece.     Every  man  who  could  gain  an  inch  of 

393 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

vantage,  roused  to  an  extra  effort  by  the  distinct  roar, 
took  equal  advantage  of  his  fellows.  Sailors  sprang 
farther  into  the  rigging  or  crawled  out  to  the  end  of 
the  bowsprits;  the  windows  of  the  warehouses  were 
thrown  up,  the  clerks  and  employees  standing  on  the 
sills,  balancing  themselves  by  the  shutters;  even  the 
skylights  were  burst  open,  men  and  boys  crawling  out 
edging  their  way  along  the  ridge-poles  of  the  roofs 
or  holding  to  the  chimneys.  Every  inch  of  standing- 
room  was  black  with  spectators. 

The  distant  roar  died  away  in  fitful  gusts  as  sud 
denly  as  it  had  arisen,  and  a  silence  even  more  ter 
rifying  fell  upon  the  throng  as  a  body  of  police 
poured  out  of  a  side  street  and  marched  in  a  compact 
body  toward  the  cars. 

Then  came  long  strings  of  horses,  eight  or  ten  in 
tandem.  These  were  backed  down  and  hooked  to  the 
cars. 

The  flash  of  bayonets  was  now  cut  off  as  the  troops 
crowded  into  the  cars;  the  body  of  police  wheeled 
and  took  their  places  ahead  of  the  horses;  the  tandems 
straightened  out  and  the  leaders  lunged  forward 
under  the  lash.  The  advance  through  the  town  had 
begun. 

All  this  time  the  mob  about  Oliver  stood  with 
hands  clenched,  jaws  tight  shut,  great  lumps  in  their 
throats.  Their  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  hungry  beasts 
watching  an  approaching  prey. 

As  the  distant  rumbling  of  the  cars,  drawn  by 
394 


THE  LAST  HOURS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

teams  of  straining  horses,  sounded  the  nearer,  a  bare 
headed  man,  with  white  hair  and  mustache  and  black 
garments  that  distinguished  him  from  the  mob  about 
him,  and  whom  Oliver  instantly  recognized  as  Col 
onel  Clayton,  mounted  a  mass  of  squared  timber  lin 
ing  the  track,  ran  the  length  of  the  pile,  climbed  to 
the  topmost  stick,  and  shouted,  in  a  voice  which 
reverberated  throughout  the  street: 

"  Block  the  tracks!" 

A  torrent  of  oaths  broke  loose  as  the  words  left 
his  lips,  and  a  rush  was  made  for  the  pile  of  timber. 
Men  struggled  and  fought  like  demons  for  the  end 
of  the  great  sticks,  carrying  them  by  main  strength, 
crossing  them  over  the  rails,  heaping  them  one  on 
the  other  like  a  pile  of  huge  jack-straws,  a  dozen  men 
to  a  length,  the  mobs  on  the  house-tops  and  in  the 
windows  cheering  like  mad.  The  ends  of  the  heavy 
chains  resting  on  the  strip  of  dirt  were  now  caught 
up  and  hauled  along  the  cobbles  to  be  intertwined 
with  the  squared  timber;  anchors  weighing  tons  were 
pried  up  and  dragged  across  the  tracks  by  lines  of 
men  urged  on  by  gray-haired  old  merchants  in 
Quaker-cut  dress  coats,  many  of  them  bare-headed, 
who  had  yielded  to  the  sudden  unaccountable  delir 
ium  that  had  seized  upon  everyone.  Colonel  Clay 
ton,  Carter  Thorn,  and  Mowbray  could  be  seen 
working  side  by  side  with  stevedores  from  the  docks 
and  the  rabble  from  the  shipyards.  John  Camblin, 
a  millionnaire  and  nearly  eighty  years  of  age,  head  of 

395 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

the  largest  East  India  house  on  the  wharves,  his  hat 
and  wig  gone,  his  coat  split  from  the  collar  to  the 
tails,  was  tugging  at  an  anchor  ten  men  could  not  have 
moved.  Staid  citizens,  men  who  had  not  used  an  oath 
for  years,  stood  on  the  sidewalks  swearing  like  street- 
toughs;  others  looked  out  from  their  office-windows 
the  tears  streaming  down  their  cheeks.  A  woman 
with  a  coarse  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  her  hair 
hanging  loose,  a  broom  in  one  hand,  was  haranguing 
the  mob  from  the  top  of  a  tobacco  hogshead,  her 
curses  filling  the  air. 

Oliver  held  to  his  seat  on  the  cross-piece  of  the 
awning,  his  teeth  set,  his  eye  fixed  on  the  rapidly 
advancing  cars,  his  mind  wavering  between  two 
opinions — loyalty  to  his  home,  now  invaded  by  troops 
whose  bayonets  might  be  turned  upon  his  own  people, 
and  loyalty  to  the  friends  he  loved — and  to  the 
woman  who  loved  him ! 

The  shouting  now  became  a  continuous  roar.  The 
front  line  of  policemen,  as  they  neared  the  obstruc 
tions,  swung  their  clubs  right  and  left,  beating  back 
the  crowd.  Then  the  rumbling  cars,  drawn  by  the 
horses,  came  to  a  halt.  The  barricades  must  be 
reckoned  with. 

Again  there  came  the  flashing  of  steel  and  the  in 
termingling  of  blue  and  white  uniforms.  The  troopt. 
were  leaving  the  cars  and  were  forming  in  line  to 
pass  the  barricades;  the  officers  marching  in  front, 

the  compact  mass  following  elbow  to  elbow,  their  eyes 

396 


THE  LAST  HOURS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

straight  before  them,  their  muskets  flat  against  theif 
shoulders. 

The  approaching  column  now  deployed  sharply, 
wheeled  to  the  right  of  the  obstruction,  and  became 
once  more  a  solid  mass,  leaving  the  barricades  behind 
them,  the  Chief  of  Police  at  the  head  of  the  line 
forcing  the  mob  back  to  the  curbstone,  laying  about 
him  with  his  club,  thumping  heads  and  cracking 
wrists  as  he  cleared  the  way. 

The  colonel  of  the  regiment,  his  fatigue  cap  pulled 
over  his  eyes,  sword  in  hand,  shoulders  erect,  cape 
thrown  back,  was  now  abreast  of  the  awning  to  which 
Oliver  clung.  ISTow  and  then  he  would  glance  fur 
tively  at  the  house-tops,  as  if  expecting  a  missile. 

The  mob  looked  on  sullenly,  awed  into  submission 
by  the  gleaming  bayonets.  But  for  the  shouts  of  the 
police,  beating  back  the  crowd,  and  the  muttered 
curses,  one  would  have  thought  a  parade  was  in 
progress. 

The  first  company  had  now  passed — pale,  haggard- 
looking  men,  their  lips  twitching,  showing  little 
flecks  of  dried  saliva  caked  in  the  corners  of  their 
mouths,  their  hands  tight  about  the  butts  of  their 
muskets. 

Oliver  looked  on  with  beating  heart.  The  dull, 
monotonous  tramp  of  their  feet  strangely  affected 
him. 

As  the  second  line  of  bayonets  came  abreast  of  the 
awning-post,  a  blacksmith  in  a  red  shirt  and  leather 

397 


THE  FOKTUNES   OF  OLIVEK  HOKN 

apron,  his  arms  bared  to  the  elbow,  sprang  from  the 
packed  sidewalk  into  the  open  space  between  the 
troops  and  the  gutter,  lifted  a  paving  stone  high 
above  his  head  and  hurled  it,  with  all  his  might, 
straight  against  the  soldier  nearest  him.  The  man 
reeled,  clutched  at  the  comrade  next  him,  and  sank 
to  the  ground.  Then,  quick  as  an  echo,  a  puff  of 
white  smoke  burst  out  down  the  line  of  troops,  and  a 
sharp,  ringing  report  split  the  air.  The  first  shot  of 
defence  had  been  fired. 

The  whole  column  swayed  as  if  breasting  a  gale. 

Another  and  an  answering  shot  now  rang  through 
the  street.  This  came  from  a  window  filled  with 
men  gesticulating  wildly.  Instantly  the  troops 
wheeled,  raised  their  muskets,  and  a  line  of  fire  and 
smoke  belched  forth. 

A  terrible  fear,  that  paled  men's  faces,  followed  by 
a  .moment  of  ominous  silence,  seized  upon  the  mob, 
and  then  a  wild  roar  burst  out  from  thousands  of 
human  throats.  The  rectangular  body  of  soldiers 
and  the  ragged-edged  mob  merged  into  a  common 
mass.  Men  wrenched  the  guns  from  the  soldiers 
and  beat  them  down  with  the  butt  ends  of  the  mus 
kets.  Frenzied  policemen  hurled  themselves  into  the 
midst  of  the  disorganized  militia,  knocking  up  the 
ends  of  their  muskets,  begging  the  men  to  hold  their 
fire.  The  air  was  thick  with  missiles ;  bricks  from  the 
house-tops;  sticks  of  wood  and  coal  from  the  fire 
places  of  the  offices;  iron  bolts,  castings,  anything 


THE  LAST  HOURS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

the  crazed  mob  could  find  with  which  to  kill  their 
fellow-men.  The  roar  was  deafening,  drowning  the 
orders  of  the  officers. 

Oliver  clung  to  his  post,  not  knowing  whether  to 
drop  into  the  seething  mass  or  to  run  the  risk  of  being 
shot  where  he  was.  Suddenly  his  eye  singled  out  a 
soldier  who  stood  at  bay  below  him,  swinging  his  mus 
ket,  widening  the  circle  about  him  with  every  blow. 
The  soldier's  movements  were  hampered  by  his  heavy 
overcoat  and  army  blanket  slung  across  his  shoulder. 
His  face  and  neck  were  covered  with  blood  and  dirt, 
disfiguring  him  beyond  recognition. 

At  the  same  instant  Oliver  became  conscious  that 
a  man  in  blue  overalls  was  creeping  up  on  the  sol 
dier's  rear  to  brain  him  writh  a  cart-rung  that  he  held 
in  his  hand. 

A  mist  swam  before  the  boy's  eyes,  and  a  great 
lump  rose  in  his  throat.  The  cowardice  of  the  attack 
incensed  him;  some  of  the  hot  blood  of  the  old  ances 
tor  that  had  crossed  the  flood  at  Trenton  flamed  up 
in  his  face.  With  the  quickness  of  a  cat  he  dropped 
to  the  sidewalk,  darted  forward,  struck  the  coward 
full  in  the  face  with  his  clenched  fist,  tumbling  him 
to  the  ground,  wrenched  the  rung  from  his  hands, 
and,  jumping  in  front  of  the  now  almost  overpowered 
soldier,  swung  the  heavy  stick  about  him  like  a  flail, 
clearing  the  space  before  him. 

The  assaulting  crowd  wavered,  fell  back,  and  then, 

maddened  at  Oliver's  defence  of  the  invader,  with  a 

399 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORtf 

•wild  yell  of  triumph,  swept  the  two  young  men  off 
their  feet,  throwing  them  bodily  down  the  steps  of 
a  ship-chandler's  shop,  the  soldier  knocked  senseless 
by  a  blow  from  a  brick  which  had  struck  him  full  in 
the  chest. 

Oliver  lay  still  for  a  moment,  raised  his  head  cau 
tiously  and,  putting  forth  all  his  strength,  twisted  his 
-arms  around  the  stricken  man  and  rolled  with  him 
into  the  cellar.  Then,  springing  to  his  feet,  he 
slammed  the  door  behind  them  and  slipped  in  the 
bolt,  before  the  mob  could  guess  his  meaning. 

Listening  at  the  crack  of  the  door  for  a  moment, 
-and  finding  they  were  not  pursued,  he  stooped  over 
the  limp  body,  lifted  it  in  his  arms,  laid  it  on  a  pile  of 
sails,  and  ran  to  the  rear  of  the  cellar  for  a  bucket 
standing  under  a  grimy  window,  scarcely  visible  in 
the  gloom,  now  that  the  door  was  shut. 

Under  the  touch  of  the  cold  water,  the  soldier 
•slowly  opened  his  eyes,  straining  them  toward  Oliver, 
as  if  in  pain. 

The  two  men  looked  intently  at  each  other,  the 
soldier  passing  his  hand  across  his  forehead  as  if  try 
ing  to  clear  his  brain.  Then  lifting  himself  up  on  his 
elbow  he  gasped: 

"Horn!  Horn!  My  God!" 

Oliver's  heart  stopped  beating. 

"Who  are  you?" 

"  John  Grant." 

Oliver  saw  only  Margaret's  face! 
400 


THE  LAST  HOURS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

As  though  he  were  working  for  the  woman  he 
loved — doing  what  she  would  have  done — he  knelt 
beside  the  wounded  man,  wiped  the  blood  and  grime 
from  his  cheeks  with  his  own  handkerchief,  loosening 
his  coat,  rubbing  his  hands,  murmuring  "  Old  fel 
low,"  "Dear  John":  there  was  no  time  for  other 
interchange  of  speech. 

When  at  last  Grant  was  on  his  feet  the  two  men 
barricaded  the  doors  more  strongly,  rolling  heavy 
barrels  against  them,  the  sounds  from  the  street  seem 
ing  to  indicate  that  an  attack  might  be  made  upox 
\hern.  But  the  mob  had  swept  on  and  forgotten 
them,  as  mobs  often  do,  while  the  fugitives  waited, 
hardly  daring  to  speak  except  in  detached  whispers, 
lest  some  one  of  the  inmates  of  the  warehouse  over 
head  might  hear  them. 

Toward  noon  a  low  tap  was  heard  at  the  window, 
which  was  level  with  an  alley  in  the  rear,  and  a  man's 
hand  was  thrust  through  a  broken  pane.  Oliver 
pressed  Grant's  arm,  laid  his  finger  on  his  lips, 
caught  up  a  heavy  hammer  lying  on  an  oil-barrel, 
crept  noiselessly  along  the  wall  toward  the  sound, 
and  stopped  to  listen.  Then  he  heard  his  name  called 
in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Marse  Ollie!  Marse  Ollie!  Is  you  in  here?  " 

"  "Who  is  it  ?  "  Oliver  called  back,  crouching  be 
neath  the  window,  his  fingers  tight  around  the  han* 
die  of  the  hammer. 

"  It's  me,  Marse  Ollie." 
401 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"You!  Malachi!" 

"  Yassir,  I'se  been  a-f  olio  win'  ye  all  de  mawnin'; 
T  see  'em  tryin'  to  kill  ye  an'  I  tried  to  git  to  ye.  I 
kin  git  through — yer  needn't  help  me,"  and  he 
squeezed  himself  under  the  raised  sash.  "  Malacbi 
like  de  snake — crawl  through  anywheres.  An'  y< 
ain't  hurted?"  he  asked  when  he  was  inside.  "  De 
bressed  Lord,  ain't  dat  good!  I  been  a-waitin'  out 
side;  I  was  feared  dey'd  see  me  if  I  tried  de  door." 

"  Where  are  the  soldiers  ?  " 

u  Gone.  Ain't  nobody  outside  at  all.  Mos'  to 
de  railroad  by  dis  time,  dey  tells  me.  An'  dere  ain't 
nary  soul  'bout  dis  place — all  run  away.  Come 
'long  wid  me,  son — I  ain't  gwine  ter  leabe  ye 
a  minute.  Marse  Richard'll  be  waitin'.  Come  'long 
home,  son.  I  been  a-followin'  ye  all  de  mawnin'." 
The  tears  were  in  his  eyes  now.  "  An'  yo  ain't 
hurted,"  and  he  felt  him  all  over  with  trembling 
hands. 

John  raised  himself  above  the  oil-barrels.  He  had 
heard  the  strange  talk  and  was  anxiously  watching 
the  approaching  figures. 

"  It's  all  right,  Grant — it's  our  Malachi,"  Oliver 
called  out  in  his  natural  voice,  now  that  there  was  no 
danger  of  being  overheard. 

The  old  man  stopped  and  lifted  both  hands  above 
his  head. 

"  Gor'-a-mighty !   an'  he  ain't  dead?"     His  eyes 

had  now  become  accustomed  to  the  gloom. 

402 


THE  LAST  HOUKS   OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

"  Xo ;  and  just  think,  Mally,  he  is  my  own  friend. 
Grant,  this  is  our  Malachi  whom  I  told  you 
about." 

Grant  stepped  over  the  barrel  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  the  old  negro.  There  are  no  class  distinc 
tions  where  life  and  death  are  concerned. 

"  Glad  to  see  you.  Pretty  close  shave,  but  I  guess 
I'm  all  right.  They'd  have  done  for  me  but  for  your 
master." 

A  council  of  war  was  now  held.  The  uniform 
*rould  be  fatal  if  Grant  were  seen  in  it  on  the  street. 
Malachi  must  crawl  into  the  alley  again,  go  over  to 
Oliver's  house,  and  return  at  dusk  with  one  of  Oli 
ver's  suits  of  clothes;  the  uniform  and  the  blood 
stained  shirt  could  then  be  hidden  in  the  cellar,  and 
at  dark,  should  the  street  still  be  deserted,  the  three 
would  put  on  a  bold  front  and  walk  out  of  the  front 
door  of  the  main  warehouse  over  their  heads.  Once 
safe  in  the  Horn  house,  they  could  perfect  plans  for 
Grant's  rejoining  his  regiment. 

Their  immediate  safety  provided  for,  and  Malachi 
gone,  Oliver  could  wait  no  longer  to  ask  about  Mar 
garet.  He  had  been  turning  over  in  his  mind  how 
he  had  best  broach  the  subject,  when  her  brother 
solved  the  difficulty  by  saying: 

"  Father  was  the  first  man  in  Brookfield  to  indorse 
the  President's  call  for  troops.  He'd  have  come  him 
self,  old  as  he  is,  if  I  had  not  joined  the  regiment. 
He  didn't  like  you,  Horn ;  I  always  told  him  he  wag 

i03 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

wrong.  He'll  never  forgive  himself  now  when  he 
hears  what  you  have  done  for  me,"  and  he  laid  his 
hand  affectionately  on  Oliver's  shoulder  as  he  spoke. 
"  I  liked  you  as  soon  as  I  saw  you,  and  so  did  mother, 
and  so  does  Madge,  but  father  was  always  wrong 
about  you.  We  told  him  so,  again  and  again,  and 
Madge  said  that  father  would  see  some  day  that  you 
got  your  politeness  from  the  Cavaliers  and  \ve  got 
our  plain  speaking  from  the  Puritans.  The  old  gen 
tleman  was  pretty  mad  about  her  saying  so,  I  tell 
you,  but  she  stuck  to  it.  Madge  is  a  dear  girl,  Horn. 
A  fellow  always  knows  just  where  to  find  Madge;  no 
nonsense  about  her.  She's  grown  handsome,  too — 
handsomer  than  ever.  There's  a  new  look  in  her 
face,  somehow,  lately.  I  tell  her  she's  met  somebody 
in  New  York  she  likes,  but  she  won't  acknowledge 
it." 

Oliver  drank  in  every  word,  drawing  out  the 
brother  with  skilful  questions  and  little  exclamatory 
remarks  that  filled  Grant  with  enthusiasm  and  in 
duced  him  to  talk  on.  They  were  young  men  again 
now — brothers  once  more,  as  they  had  been  that  first 
afternoon  in  the  library  at  Brookfield.  In  the  joj 
of  hearing  from  her  he  entirely  forgot  his  surround 
ings,  and  the  dangers  that  still  beset  them  both; 
a  joy  intensified  because  it  was  the  first  and  only 
time  he  had  heard  someone  who  knew  her  talk  to 
him  of  the  woman  he  loved.  This  went  on  until 

night  fell  and  Malachi  again  crawled  in  through  the 

404 


THE  LAST  HOURS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

game   low  window   and  helped  John   into   Oliver's^ 
clothes. 

When  all  was  ready  the  main  door  of  the  ware 
house  above  was  opened  carefully  and  the  three  men 
walked  out — Malachi  ahead,  John  and  Oliver  follow 
ing.  The  moonlit  street  was  deserted;  only  the  bar 
ricades  of  timber  and  the  litter  of  stones  and  bricks 
marked  the  events  of  the  morning.  Dodging  into  a 
side  alley  and  keeping  on  its  shadow  side  they  made- 
their  way  toward  Oliver's  home. 

"When  the  three  reached  the  Square,  the  white  light 
of  the  moon  lay  full  on  the  bleached  columns  of  the- 
Clayton  house.  Outside  on  the  porch,  resting  against 
the  wall,  stood  a  row  of  long-barrelled  guns  glinting 
in  the  moon's  rays.  Through  the  open  doorway 
could  be  seen  the  glow  of  the  hall  lantern,  the  hall 
itself  crowded  with  men.  The  Horn  house  was  dark, 
except  for  a  light  in  Mrs.  Horn's  bedroom.  The  old 
servant's  visit  had  calmed  their  fears,  and  they  had 
only  to  wait  now  until  Oliver's  return. 

Malachi  stationed  Oliver  and  John  Grant  in  the 
shadow  of  the  big  sycamore  that  overhung  the  house, 
mounted  the  marble  steps  and  knocked  twice.  Aunt 
Hannah  opened  the  door.  She  seemed  to  be  expect 
ing  someone,  for  the  knock  was  instantly  followed  by 
the  turning  of  the  knob. 

Malachi  spoke  a  few  words  in  an  undertone  to  Han 
nah,  and  stepped  back  to  where  the  two  young  men, 
were  standing. 

405 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  You  go  in,  Marse  Oliver.  Leabe  de  gemman  here 
wid  me  under  de  tree.  Everybody's  got  dere  eye 
wide  open  now — can't  fool  Malachi — I  knows  de 
?igns." 

Oliver  walked  leisurely  to  the  door,  closed  it  softly 
behind  him,  and  ran  upstairs  into  his  mother's  arms. 

Malachi  whispered  to  Grant,  and  the  two  disap 
peared  in  the  shadows.  At  the  same  moment  a  bolt 
shot  back  in  a  gate  in  the  rear  of  the  yard — a  gate 
rarely  unbolted.  Old  Hannah  stood  behind  it  shad 
ing  a  candle  with  her  hand.  Malachi  led  the  way 
•across  the  yard,  through  the  green  door  of  Richard's 
shop,  mounted  the  work-bench,  felt  carefully  along 
the  edge  of  a  trap-door  in  the  ceiling,  unhooked  a 
latch,  pushed  it  up  with  his  two  hands,  the  dust 
•sifting  down  in  showers  on  his  head,  and  disclosed  a 
large,  empty  loft,  once  used  by  the  slaves  as  a  sleep 
ing-room,  and  which  had  not  been  opened  for  years. 

Assisted  by  the  negro's  arms,  Grant  climbed  to  the 
floor  above,  where  a  dim  skylight  gave  him  light  and 
air.  A  cup  of  hot  coffee  was  then  handed  up  and  the 
door  of  the  trap  carefully  fastened,  Malachi  rumpling 
the  shavings  on  the  work-bench  to  conceal  the  dust, 
Xo  trace  of  the  hiding-place  of  the  fugitive  was 
visible. 

When  Malachi  again  reached  the  front  hall,  it  was 
in  response  to  someone  who  was  hammering  at  the 
door  as  if  to  break  it  down.  The  old  man  peered 

cautiously  out  through  the  small  panes  of  glass.    The 

406 


THE  LAST  HOUKS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

sidewalk  was  crowded  with  men  led  by  Colonel  Clay 
ton,  most  of  them  carrying  guns.  They  had  marched 
over  from  Clayton's  house.  Among  them  was  a 
posse  of  detectives  from  the  Police  Department. 

In  answer  to  their  summons  Richard  had  thrown 
up  the  window  of  his  bedroom  and  was  talking  to 
Clayton,  whose  voice  Malachi  recognized  above  the 
murmurs  and  threats  of  the  small  mob. 

"  Come  down,  Horn.  Oliver  has  proved  traitor, 
just  as  I  knew  he  would.  He's  been  hiding  one  of 
these  damned  Yankees  all  day.  We  want  that  man, 
I  Jell  you,  dead  or  alive,  and  we  are  going  to  have 
him." 

When  the  door  was  flung  wide  Clayton  confronted, 
not  Richard,  but  Oliver. 

"  Where's  that  Yankee?  "  cried  Clayton.  He  had 
,aot  expected  to  see  Oliver.  "  We  are  in  no  mood  for 
nonsense — where  have  you  hidden  him? " 

Malachi  stepped  forward  before  Oliver  could 
answer. 

"  Marse  Oliver  ain't  hid  him.  If  you  want  him  go 
hunt  him !  " 

"  You  speak  like  that  to  me,  you  black  scoundrel," 
burst  out  the  Colonel,  and  he  raised  his  arm  as  if  to 
strike  him. 

"  Yes — me!  Ain't  nobody  gwine  ter  tech  Marse 
Oliver  while  I  lib.  I's  as  free  as  you  is,  Marse  Clay 
ton.  Ain't  no  man  can  lay  a  han'  on  me !  " 

The  Colonel  wheeled  angrily  and  gave  an  order  to 
407 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

one  of  the  detectives  in  a  low  voice.  Oliver  stood 
irresolute.  He  knew  nothing  of  Grant's  where 
abouts. 

The  detective  moved  from  the  Colonel's  side  and 
pushed  his  way  closer  to  where  Oliver  stood. 

"  There's  no  use  your  denying  it,  young  feller; 
we've  heard  the  whole  story  from  one  of  our  men 
who  saw  you  jump  in  front  of  him.  You  bring  him 
out  or  we'll  go  through  the  place  from  cellar  to 
garret." 

Oliver  gazed  straight  at  the  speaker  and  still  held 
his  peace.  He  was  wondering  where  Grant  had  hid 
den  himself  and  what  John's  chances  were  if  the 
crowd  searched  the  house.  Malachi's  outburst  had 
left  him  in  the  dark. 

Mrs.  Horn  and  Richard,  who  had  followed  Oliver 
and  were  standing  half  way  down  the  stairs,  looked 
on  in  astonishment.  Would  Clayton  dare  to  break 
all  the  rules  of  good  manners,  and  search  the  house, 
she  whispered  to  Richard. 

Another  of  the  detectives  now  stepped  forward — • 
a  dark,  ugly-looking  man,  with  the  face  of  a  bull 
dog. 

"  Look  here !  I'll  settle  this.  You  and  two  men 
crossed  the  Square  ten  minutes  ago.  This  nigger  is 
one  of  'em;  where's  the  other?  " 

Malachi  turned  and  smiled  significantly  at  Oliver 
• — a  smile  he  knew.  It  was  the  smile  which  the  old 

man's  face  always  wore  whenever  some  tortuous  lie 

4U8 


THE  LAST  HOURS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

of  the  darky's  own  concoction  had  helped  his  young 
master  out  of  one  of  his  scrapes. 

"  I  am  not  here  to  answer  your  questions," 
Oliver  replied  quietly,  a  feeling  of  relief  in  his 
heart. 

The  officer  turned  quickly  and  said  with  an  oath 
to  one  of  the  detectives,  "  Send  one  man  to  the  alley 
in  the  rear,  and  place  another  at  this  door.  I'll  search 
the  yard  and  the  house.  Let  no  one  of  the  family 
leave  this  hail.  If  that  nigger  moves  put  the  irons 
on  him." 

"  The  men  outside  made  a  circle  about  the  house, 
some  of  them  moving  up  the  alley  to  watch  the  rear. 
Clayton  leaned  against  the  jamb  of  the  door.  He 
addressed  no  word  to  Richard  or  Mrs.  Horn,  nor  did 
he  look  their  way.  Oliver  stood  with  folded  arms 
under  the  eight-sided  hall-lantern  which  an  officer 
had  lighted.  Now  and  then  he  spoke  in  restrained 
tones  to  his  mother,  who  had  taken  her  seat  on  the 
stairs,  Richard  standing  beside  her.  It  was  not  the 
fate  of  the  soldier  that  interested  her — it  was  the 
horror  of  the  search.  Richard  had  not  spoken  except 
to  direct  Malachi  to  obey  the  officer's  orders.  The 
horror  of  the  search  did  not  affect  the  inventor — that 
only  violated  the  sanctity  of  the  home:  it  was  the 
brute  force  behind  it  which  appalled  him — that  might 
annihilate  the  Republic. 

"  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  end,"  he  said  to  him 
self. 

409 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

The  tread  of  heavy  feet  was  again  heard  coming 
through  the  hall.  Malachi  turned  quickly  and  a  sub 
dued  smile  lighted  his  wrinkled  face. 

The  two  detectives  were  alone! 

"  He  is  not  there,  Colonel  Clayton,"  said  the  man 
with  the  bull-dog  face,  slipping  his. pistol  into  his 
hip  pocket.  "  We  went  through  the  yard  and  the  out 
houses  like  a  fine  tooth-comb  and  made  a  clean  sweep 
of  the  cellar.  He  may  have  gotten  over  the  wall,  but 
I  don't  think  it.  There's  a  lot  of  broken  bottles  on 
top.  I'll  try  the  bedrooms  now." 

As  the  words  fell  from  his  lips  Mrs.  Horn  rose 
from  her  seat  on  the  stairs,  straight  as  a  soldier  on 
guard.  The  light  from  the  lantern  illumined  her 
gray  hair  and  threw  into  strong  relief  her  upraised 
hand — the  first  of  millions  raised  in  protest  against 
the  invasion  of  the  homes  of  the  South.  The  detec 
tive  saw  the  movement  and  a  grim-smile  came  into  his 
face. 

"  Unless  they'll  bring  him  out,"  he  added,  slowly. 
"  This  young  feller  knows  where  he  is.  Make  him 
tell." 

Colonel  Clayton  turned  to  Oliver.  "  Is  he  up 
stairs,  Oliver? " 

"  No." 

"  You  give  me  your  word  of  honor,  Oliver,  that 
he  is  not  upstairs  ?  " 

« I  do." 

"  Of  course  he'd  say  that.  Here,  I'll  know  pretty 
410 


THE  LAST  HOURS  OF  A  CIVILIZATION 

d quick/'  muttered  the  detective  moving  toward 

the  stairway. 

The  Colonel  stepped  forward  and  barred  his  way 
with  his  arm. 

"  Stay  where  you  are!  You  don't  know  these  peo 
ple.  If  Oliver  says  he  is  not  upstairs  I  believe  him. 
These  Horns  don't  know  how  to  lie.  Your  informa 
tion  is  wrong.  The  man  never  entered  the  house. 
You  must  look  for  the  Yankee  somewhere  else." 
Waiting  until  the  detectives  had  left  the  hall,  he 
raised  his  hat,  and  with  some  show  of  feeling  said: 
'  "  I  am  sorry,  Sallie,  that  we  had  to  upset  you  so. 
"When  you  and  Richard  see  this  matter  in  its  true 
light  you'll  think  as  I  do.  If  these  scoundrels  are  to 
be  permitted  to  come  here  and  burn  our  homes  wa 
want  to  know  which  side  our  friends  are  on." 

"  You  are  the  judge  of  your  own  conduct,  John 
Clayton,"  she  answered,  calmly.  u  This  night's  work 
\vill  follow  you  all  your  life.  Malachi,  show  Colonel 
Clayton  to  the  door  and  close  it  behind  him." 

Three  nights  later  llalachi  admitted  a  man  he  had 
never  seen  before.  He  was  short  and  thick-set  and 
had  a  grim,  firmly  set  jaw.  Under  the  lapel  of  his 
coat  was  a  gold  shield.  He  asked  for  Mr.  Horn,  who 
had  lately  been  living  in  ISTew  York.  He  would  not 
come  inside  the  drawing-room,  but  sat  in  the  hall  en 
the  hair-cloth  sofa,  his  knees  apart,  his  cap  in  his 
hand. 

411 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  I'm  the  Chief  of  Police,"  he  said  to  Oliver,  with* 
out  rising  from  his  seat,  "  and  I  come  because  Mr. 
Cobb  sent  me.  That's  between  ourselves,  remember. 
You'll  have  to  get  out  of  here  at  once.  They've  got 
a  yarn  started  that  you're  a  government  detective 
sent  down  here  to  spot  rebel  sympathizers  and  they'll 
make  it  warm  for  you.  I've  looked  into  it  and  I  know 
it  ain't  so,  but  this  town's  in  no  shape  to  listen  to 
anything.  Besides,  a  while  ago  one  of  my  men  found 
your  friend's  uniform  in  the  cellar  where  you  hid  it 
behind  the  barrels  and  the  handkerchief  all  blood 
with  your  name  on  it;  and  they've  got  you  dead  to 
rights.  That'll  all  be  out  in  the  morning  papers  and 
make  it  worse  for  you.  You  needn't  worry  about 
him.  He's  all  right.  Mr.  Cobb  found  him  at  daylight 
this  morning  just  where  your  nigger  left  him  and 
drove  him  over  to  the  junction.  He's  with  his  regi 
ment  by  this  time.  Get  your  things  together  quick 
as  you  can.  I'll  wait  for  you  and  see  you  safe  aboard 
the  owl  train." 

"Within  the  hour  Oliver  had  turned  his  back  on  his 
home  and  all  that  he  loved. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE    SETTLING    OF   THE    SHADOW 

The  bruised  crocuses  never  again  lifted  their 
heads  in  Kennedy  Square. 

"With  the  settling  of  the  shadow — a  shadow  black 
with  hate — men  forgot  the  perfume  of  flowers,  the 
rest  and  cool  of  shady  nooks,  the  kindling  touch  of 
warm  hands,  and  stood  apart  with  eyos  askance; 
women  shuddered  and  grew  pale,  and  sad-  faced  chil 
dren  peered  out  through  closed  blinds. 

Within  the  Square  itself,  along  paths  that  had  once 
echoed  to  the  tread  of  slippered  feet,  armed  sentries 
paced,  their  sharp  challenges  breaking  the  stillness 
of  the  night.  Outside  its  wrecked  fences  strange  men 
in  stranger  uniforms  strode  in  and  out  of  the  joyless 
houses;  tired  pickets  stacked  their  arms  on  the  un- 
swept  piazzas,  and  panting  horses  nibbled  the  bark 
from  the  withered  trees;  rank  weeds  choked  tin  gar 
dens;  dishevelled  vines  clung  to  the  porches,  and 
doors  that  had  always  swung  wide  to  the  gentle  tap 
of  loving  fingers  were  opened  timidly  to  the  bk  w  of 
the  sword-hilt. 

Kennedy  Square  became  a  tradition. 

Some  civilizations  die  slowly.  This  one  was  shat 
tered  in  a  day  by  a  paving-stone  in  the  hands  c  *  a 

thug. 

413 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE    STONE    MUGS 

Frederick  Stone,  K.A.,  member  of  the  Stone 
Mugs,  late  war  correspondent  and  special  artist  en 
the  spot,  paused  before  the  cheerful  blaze  of  his  studio 
fire,  shaking  the  wet  snow  from  his  feet.  He  had 
tramped  across  "Washington  Square  in  drifts  that 
were  over  his  shoe-tops,  mounted  the  three  flights  of 
steps  to  his  cosey  rooms,  and  was  at  the  moment  ex 
pressing  his  views  on  the  weather,  in  terms  more 
forcible  than  polite,  to  our  very  old  friend,  Jack  Bed 
ford,  the  famous  marine-painter.  Bedford,  on  hear 
ing  the  sound  of  Fred's  footsteps,  had  strolled  in  from 
his  own  studio,  in  the  same  building,  and  had  thrown 
himself  into  a  big  arm-chair,  where  he  was  sitting 
hunched  up,  his  knees  almost  touching  his  chin,  his 
round  head  covered  by  a  skull-cap  that  showed  above 
the  chair-back. 

"  IsTice  weather  for  ducks,  Jack,  isn't  it?  Can't  see 
how  anybody  can  get  here  to-night,"  cried  Fred, 
striking  the  mantel  with  his  wet  cap,  and  scattering 
the  rain-drops  over  the  hearth.  "  Just  passed  a 
Broadway  stage  stuck  in  a  hole  as  I  came  by  the  ]STew 
York  Hotel.  Been  there  an  hour,  they  told  me." 

"Shouldn't  wonder.     Whose  night  is  it,  Fred?" 
414 


THE  STONE  MUGS 

asked  Jack,  stretching  out  one  leg  in  the  direction  oi 
the  cheery  blaze. 

"  Horn's." 

"  What's  he  going  to  do?  " 

"  Give  it  up.  Ask  me  an  easy  one.  Said  he  wanted 
a  thirty  by  forty.  There  it  is  on  the  easel,"  and  Fred 
moved  a  chair  out  of  his  way,  hung  his  wet  coat  and 
hat  on  a  peg  behind  the  door,  and  started  to  clear  up 
a  tangle  of  artillery  harness  that  littered  the  floor. 

"  Thirty  by  forty,  eh,"  grunted  Jack,  from  the 
depths  of  his  chair.  "  Thunder  and  Mars !  Is  the 
beggar  going  to  paint  a  panorama?  Thought  that 
canvas  was  for  a  new  cavalry  charge  of  yours !  "  He 
had  lowered  the  other  leg  now,  making  a  double- 
barrelled  gun  of  the  pair. 

"  No ;  it's  Horn's.  He's  going  to  paint  one  of  the 
fellows  to-night." 

"  In  costume  ? "  Jack's  head  was  now  so  low  in 
the  chair  that  his  eyes  could  draw  a  bead  along  his 
legs  to  the  fire. 

"  Yes,  as  an  old  Burgomaster,  or  something  with 
a  ruff,"  and  he  kicked  an  army  blanket  into  a  corner 
as  he  spoke.  "  There's  the  ruff  hanging  on  that  pair 
of  foils,  Waller  sent  it  over."  Then  his  merry  eyes 
^fell  on  Jack's  sprawled-out  figure,  his  feet  almost  in 
the  grate — a  favorite  attitude  of  his  neighbor's  when 
tired  out  with  the  day's  work,  comfortable  perhaps, 
but  especially  objectionable  at  the  moment. 

"  Here — get  up,  you  old  stick-in-the-mud.     Don't 
415 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

sit  there,  doubled  up  like  a  government  mule,"  ho 
laughed.  (The  army  lingo  still  showed  itself  once 
in  a  while  in  Fred's  speech.)  "  Help  me  get  this  room 
ready  or  I'll  whale  you  with  this,"  and  he  waved  one 
end  of  a  trace  over  his  head.  "  If  the  fellows  are 
coming  they'll  be  here  in  half  an  hour.  Shove  back 
that  easel  and  bring  in  that  beer — it's  outside  the  door 
in  a  box.  I'll  get  out  the  tobacco  and  pipes." 

Jack  stretched  both  arms  above  his  head,  emitted 
a  yawn  that  could  be  heard  in  his  room  below,  and 
sprang  to  his  feet. 

Fred,  by  this  time,  had  taken  down  from  a  closet 
a  tin  box  of  crackers,  unwrapped  a  yellow  cheese, 
and  was  trimming  its  raw  edges  with  a  palette  knife. 
Then  they  both  moved  out  a  big  table  from  the  inner 
room  to  the  larger  one,  and,  while  Jack  placed  the 
eatables  on  its  bare  top,  Fred  mounted  a  chair,  and 
began  lighting  a  circle  of  gas-jets  that  hung  from  the 
ceiling  of  the  skylight.  The  war-painter  was  host  to 
night,  and  the  task  of  arranging  the  rooms  for  the 
comfort  of  his  fellow-members  consequently  devolved 
upon  him. 

The  refreshments  having  been  made  ready,  Fred 
roamed  about  the  rooms  straightening  the  pictures 
oil  the  walls — an  old  fad  of  his  when  guests  of  any 
kind  were  expected — punching  the  cushions  and 
Turkish  saddle-bags  into  pliimpness,  that  he  had 
picked  up  in  a  flying  trip  abroad  the  year  the  war  was 

over,  and  stringing  them  along  the  divan  ready  for 

416 


THE  STONE  MUGS 

the  backs  and  legs  of  the  club-members.  Next  he 
stripped  the  piano  of  a  collection  of  camp  sketches 
that  had  littered  it  up  for  a  week,  dumped  the  pile  into 
a  closet,  and,  with  a  sudden  wrench  of  his  arms, 
whirled  the  instrument  itself  close  against  the  walL 
Then  some  fire-arms,  saddles,  and  artillery  trappings 
were  hidden  away  in  dark  corners,  and  a  lay  figure, 
clothed  in  fatigue  cap  and  blue  overcoat,  and  which 
had  done  duty  as  "  a  picket "  during  the  day,  was 
wheeled  around  with  its  face  to  the  wall,  where  it 
§£ood  guard  over  Fred's  famous  picture  of  "  The  Last 
Gun  at  Appomattox."  His  final  touches  were  be 
stowed  on  the  grate-fire  and  the  coal-scuttle,  both  of 
which  were  replenished  from  a  big  pine  box  in  the 
hall. 

Jack  Bedford,  meanwhile,  had  busied  himself  roll 
ing  another  table — a  long  one — under  the  circle  of 
gas-jets  so  that  the  men  could  see  to  work  the  better, 
and  loading  it  with  palettes,  china  tiles,  canvases,  etc., 
to  be  used  by  the  members  of  the  club  in  their 
work  of  the  evening.  Last  of  all  and  not  by  any 
means  the  least  important,  Jack,  by  the  aid  of  a  chair, 
gathered  together,  on  the  top  shelf  of  the  closet,  the 
unique  collection  of  stone  beer-mugs  from  which  the 
club  took  its  name.  These  he  handed  down  one  by 
one  to  Fred,  who  arranged  them  in  a  row  on  one  end 
of  the  long  table.  The  mugs  were  to  hold  the  con 
tents  of  sundry  bottles  of  beer,  now  safely  stowed 
away  in  the  lidless,  pigeon-holed  box,  standing  in  the1 

417 


THE  FOKTLTNEis  uF  OLIVER  HORN 

hall,  which  Fred  unloaded  later,  placing  the  bottles 
on  the  window-sill  outside  to  cool. 

Before  they  had  ended  their  preparations,  the 
stamping  of  feet  on  the  stair  was  heard,  the  door  was 
thrown  back,  and  the  several  members  of  the  club 
began  to  arrive. 

The  great  "Waller  came  first,  brushing  the  snow 
from  his  shaggy  coat,  looking  like  a  great  bear,  growl 
ing  as  he  rolled  in,  as  was  his  wont.  Close  behind 
him,  puffing  with  the  run  upstairs,  and  half-hidden 
behind  Waller's  broad  shoulders,  trotted  Simmons, 
the  musician. 

Not  the  tousled,  ill-clad  Waller,  the  "Walrus" 
of  former  days — no  one  dared  to  call  the  painter  by 
any  such  names  since  his  picture  took  the  Medaillo 
d'llonneur  at  Paris — and  not  the  slender,  smooth 
faced  Simmons,  who  in  the  old  days  was  content  to 
take  his  chances  of  filling  a  vacancy  at  Wallack's  or 
the  Winter  Garden,  when  some  one  of  the  regular 
orchestra  was  under  the  weather;  but  a  sleek,  pros 
perous,  rotund  Waller,  with  a  bit  of  red  in  his  button 
hole,  a  wide  expanse  of  shirt-front,  and  a  waxed  mus 
tache;  and  a  thoughtful,  slightly  bald,  and  well- 
dressed  Simmons,  with  gold  eyeglasses,  and  his  hair 
worn  long  in  his  neck  as  befitted  the  leader  of  an 
orchestra  whose  concerts  crowded  the  Academy  to 
the  doors. 

These  two  arrivals  nodded  to  Jack  and  Fred,  Wal 
ler  cursing  the  weather  as  he  hung  up  his  coat  on  a 

418 


THE  STONE  MUGS 

)eg  behind  the  door  (unnecessary  formalities  of  every 
kind,  including  the  shaking  of  hands  and  asking  after 
each  other's  health,  were  dispensed  with  by  men  who 
saw  each  other  several  times  a  day  at  their  different 
haunts),  and  Simmons,  without  stopping  to  take  off 
his  wet  coat,  flung  his  hat  on  the  divan,  crossed  the 
room,  and  seated  himself  at  the  piano. 

"  Went  this  way,  Waller,  didn't  it?  "  said  Simmons 
striking  the  keys,  continuing  the  conversation  the  two 
had  evidently  had  on  the  stairs.  "  Never  heard  Pare- 
pa  in  better  voice.  She  filled  every  corner  of  the 
house.  Crug  told  me  he  was  up  in  Africa  in  the  back 
row  and  never  missed  a  note.  Do  you  remember 
this  ? "  and  the  musician's  fingers  again  slipped  over 
the  keys,  and  one  of  the  great  singer's  trills  rippled 
through  the  room,  to  which  Waller  nodded  approv 
ingly,  mopping  his  wet  face  with  his  handkerchief  as 
he  listened. 

The  opening  and  shutting  of  the  door,  the  stamping 
of  feet,  the  general  imprecations  hurled  at  the  cli 
mate,  and  the  scattering  of  wet  snow  and  rain-drops 
about  the  entrance  became  constant.  Crug  bustled 
in — a  short,  thick-set,  rosy-cheeked  young  fellow  in 
a  black  mackintosh  and  a  white  silk  muffler — a  'cellist 
of  repute,  who  had  spent  two  years  at  the  conserva 
toire,  and  who  had  once  played  for  Eugenie  at  one  of 
her  musicales  at  the  Tuileries,  a  fact  he  never  let  you 
fqrget.  And  close  behind  him  came  Watson,  tho 

landscape-painter,  who  had  had  two  pictures  accepted 

419 


THE  FOKTUKES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

by  the  Royal  Academy — one  of  them  hung  on  the 
line,  a  great  honor  for  an  American;  and  after  them 
blue-eyed,  round-faced  Munson,  a  pupil  of  Kaulbach, 
and  late  from  Munich;  as  well  as  Harry  Stedman, 
Post,  the  art-critic,  and  one  or  two  others. 

Each  man  as  he  entered  divested  himself  of  his 
wet  garments,  warmed  his  hands  at  the  blazing  grate- 
fire,  and,  reaching  over  the  long  table,  picked  up  a 
clay  or  corn-cob  pipe,  stuffing  the  bowl  full  of  tobacco 
from  a  cracked  Japanese  pot  that  stood  on  the  man 
tel.  Then  striking  a  match  he  settled  himself  into 
the  nearest  chair,  joining  in  the  general  talk  or  smok 
ing  quietly,  listening  to  what  was  being  said  about 
him.  ISTow  and  then  one  would  walk  to  the  window, 
raise  the  sash,  uncork  a  bottle  of  beer  where  Fred  had 
placed  it,  empty  its  contents  into  one  of  the  mugs,  and 
resume  his  seat — mug  in  one  hand,  pipe  in  the  other. 

Up  to  this  time  no  work  had  been  done,  the  cour 
tesies  of  the  club  permitting  none  to  begin  until  the 
member  whose  night  it  was  had  arrived. 

As  the  half-hour  slipped  away  the  men  began  to 
grow  restless. 

"  If  it's  Horn's  night  why  the  devil  doesn't  he 
come,  Fred?  "  asked  Waller,  in  a  querulous  tone.  Al 
though  the  great  sheep-painter  had  lost  his  sobriquet 
since  the  old  days,  he  had  never  parted  with  his  right 
to  growl. 

"  He'll  be  here,"  cried  Simmons  from  his  seat  by 

the  piano.    His  fingers  were  still  rippling  gently  over 

420 


THE  STOKE  MUGS 

the  keys,  although  he  had  stopped  once  just  long 
enough  to  strip  off  his  wet  overcoat.  "  I  met  him  at 
Margaret  Grant's  this  afternoon.  She  had  a  little 
tea." 

"There  every  afternoon,  isn't  he,  Simmons?" 
asked  Mimson,  who  was  smoking  quietly. 

"  Shouldn't  wonder,"  came  the  response  between 
the  trills. 

"  How's  that  affair  coming  on?  "  came  a  voice  out 
of  the  tobacco-smoke. 

"  Same  old  way,"  answered  someone  at  the  lower 
•uhd  of  the  table—"  still  waiting  for  the  spondulix." 

"Seen  her  last  picture?"  remarked  Watson, 
knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe.  "  The  one  she 
scooped  the  medal  with?  " 

"Yes.  Rouser,  isn't  it?"  called  out  Waller. 
"  Best  thing  she  has  done  yet.  She's  a  great  woman. 
Hello !  there  he  is !  This  is  a  pretty  time  for  him  to 
put  in  an  appearance !  " 

The  door  opened  and  Oliver  walked  in,  a  wet  um 
brella  in  one  hand,  his  coat-collar  turned  up,  his  r*us- 
tache  beaded  with  melted  snow-drops. 

"  What's  it  doing  outside,  Ollie,  raining  cats  and 
dogs?  "  Jack  called  out. 

"  'No,  going  to  clear  up.  It's  stopped  snowing  and 
getting  colder.  Oh,  what  a  night!  I  love  a  storm 
like  this,  it  sets  my  blood  tingling.  Sorry  to  keep  you 
waiting,  gentlemen,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  It  w"on't 

make  any  difference ;  I  can't  begin,  anyway.    Bianchi 

421 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

won't  be  here  for  an  hour.  Just  met  him  on  the  street 
— he's  going  to  bring  a  guest,  he  says." 

"  Who's  he  going  to  bring?  "  shouted  Simmons, 
who  had  risen  from  his  seat  at  the  piano,  and  was  now 
sorting  out  some  sheets  of  music  that  Ered  had  just 
laid  on  its  top. 

"He  won't  tell;  says  it's  a  surprise,"  answered 
Oliver,  slipping  off  his  coat. 

"A  surprise,  is  it?"  grumbled  Waller.  "I'll  bet 
it's  some  greasy  foreigner."  He  had  left  Simmons's 
side  and  was  now  standing  by  the  mantel,  filling  a  pipe 
from  the  bowl.  "  Bianchi  has  always  got  a  lot  o^ 
cranks  about  him." 

Oliver  hung  his  wet  coat  among  the  row  of  gar 
ments  lining  the  wall — he  had  come  twice  as  far  as 
the  others — crowded  his  dripping  umbrella  into  a 
broken  Chinese  jar  that  did  duty  as  a  rack,  and,  catch 
ing  sight  of  the  canvas,  walked  toward  the  easel  hold 
ing  the  thirty  by  forty. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it,  Freddie?  "  he  said,  putting 
his  arms  around  the  shoulders  of  his  old  chum  and 
dragging  him  toward  the  easel  for  a  closer  inspection 
of  the  grain  of  the  canvas. 

"  Snedecor's." 

"  Just  right,  old  man.  Much  obliged,"  and  he  felt 
the  grain  of  the  cloth  with  his  thumb.  "  Got  a  ruff?  " 
and  he  glanced  about  him.  "  Oh,  yes;  I  see. 
Thanks." 

The  men,  now  that  Oliver  nad  arrived,  drew  up 

-m 


THE  STONE  MUGS 

around  the  long  table.  Some  began  setting  thei? 
palettes;  others  picked  out,  from  the  common  stock 
before  them,  the  panels,  canvases,  china  plates,  or 
sheets  of  paper,  which,  under  their  deft  touches,  were 
so  soon  to  be  covered  with  dainty  bits  of  color. 

It  was  in  many  ways  a  remarkable  club.  Most  of 
its  members  had  already  achieved  the  highest  rank 
in  their  several  professions  and  outside  the  walls  of 
this  eyrie  were  known  as  earnest,  thoughtful  men, 
envied  and  sought  after  by  those  who  respected  their 
a,ims  and  successes. 

Inside  these  cosey  rooms  all  restraint  was  laid 
aside  and  each  man's  personality  and  temperament 
expressed  itself  without  reserve.  Harry  Stedman, 
who,  perhaps,  had  been  teaching  a  class  of  students  all 
the  morning  in  the  new  building  of  the  National 
Academy  of  Design,  each  one  of  whom  hung  upon  his 
words  as  if  he  had  been  inspired,  could  be  found  here 
a  few  hours  later  joining  in  a  chorus  with  a  voice 
loud  enough  to  rattle  every  mug  on  the  table. 

Waller,  who  doubtless  that  same  night,  had  been 
the  bright  particular  star  at  some  smart  dinner  up 
town,  and  whose  red  ribbon  had  added  such  eclat 
to  the  occasion,  and  whose  low  voice  and  quiet  man 
ners  and  correct,  conventional  speeches  had  so 
charmed  and  captivated  the  lady  on  his  right,  would, 
when  once  in  this  room,  sit  astride  some  chair,  a  pipe 
in  one  hand,  a  mug  of  beer  in  the  other.  Here  he 

would  discuss  with  Simmons  or  Jack  or  Oliver  bis 

423 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

preference  of  Chopin  over  Beethoven,  or  the  differ- 
ence  between  Parepa-Rosa  and  Jenny  Lind,  or  any 
topic  which  had  risen  out  of  the  common  talk,  and  all 
too  with  a  grotesqueness  of  speech  and  manner  that 
would  have  frozen  his  hostess  of  the  dinner-table 
dumb  with  astonishment  could  she  have  seen  him. 

And  so  with  the  others.  Each  man  was  frankly 
himself  and  in  undress  uniform  when  under  Fred's 
skylight,  or  when  the  club  was  enjoying  any  one  of 
its  various  festivals  and  functions. 

Oliver's  election  into  the  organization  had,  there 
fore,  been  to  him  one  of  the  greatest  honors  he  had 
received  since  his  skill  as  a  painter  had  been  recog 
nized  by  his  fellows — an  honor  not  conferred  upon 
him  because  he  had  been  one  of  the  earlier  members 
of  the  old  Union  Square  organization,  many  of  whom 
had  been  left  out,  but  entirely  because  he  was  not 
only  the  best  of  fellows,  but  among  the  best  of  paint 
ers  as  well.  An  honor  too,  which  brought  with  it 
the  possibility  of  a  certain  satisfying  of  his  tastes. 
Only  once  before  had  he  found  an  atmosphere  so  con 
genial  and  that  was  when  the  big  hemlocks  that  he 
loved  stood  firm  and  silent  about  him — companions 
in  a  wilderness  that  rested  him. 

The  coming  together  of  such  a  body  of  men  rep 
resenting,  as  they  did,  the  choicest  the  city  afforded 
in  art,  literature  and  music,  had  been  as  natural 
and  unavoidable  as  the  concentration  of  a  mass  of 

iron    filings    toward    a    magnet.       That    insatiable 

424 


THE  STOKE  MUGS 

hunger  of  the  Bohemian,  that  craving  of  the 
craftsman  for  men  of  his  kind,  had  at  last  over 
powered  them,  and  the  meetings  in  Fred's  studio  were 
the  inevitable  result. 

Many  of  these  devotees  of  the  arts  had  landed  on 
the  barren  shores  of  America — barren  of  even  the 
slightest  trace  of  that  life  they  had  learned  to  love 
so  well  in  the  Quart ier  Latin  in  Paris  and  in  the 
Rathskellers  of  Munich  and  Dusseldorf — and  had 
wandered  about  in  the  uncongenial  atmosphere  of 
tjie  commonplace  until  this  retreat  had  been  opened 
to  them.  Some,  like  Fred  Stone  and  Jack  Bedford, 
who  had  struggled  on  through  the  war,  too  much  oc 
cupied  in  the  whirl  of  their  life  to  miss  at  the  time 
the  associations  of  men  of  similar  tastes,  had  eagerly 
grasped  the  opportunity  when  it  came,  and  others, 
like  Oliver,  who  had  had  all  they  could  do  to  get  their 
three  meals  during  the  day  and  a  shelter  for  the 
night,  had  hardly  been  conscious  of  what  they  wanted 
until  the  club  had  extended  to  them  its  congenial 
surroundings. 

On  the  trio  of  painters  we  knew  best  in  the  old 
days  these  privations  and  the  uncertainties  and  dis 
appointments  of  the  war  had  left  their  indelible  mark. 
You  became  aware  of  this  when  you  saw  them  among 
their  fellow-wTorkers.  About  Fred's  temples  many 
tell-tale  gray  hairs  were  mingled  with  the  brown,  and 
about  his  mouth  and  eyes  were  deeper  lines  than 
those  which  hard  work  alone  would  have  cut.  IM 

42? 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVEK  HORN 

carried  a  hole,  too,  in  his  right  arm — or  did  until  the 
army  surgeon  sewed  it  up — you  could  see  it  as  a  blue 
scar  every  time  he  rolled  up  his  sleeve — a  slight  sou 
venir  of  the  Battle  of  Five  Forks.  It  was  bored  on. 
by  a  bullet  from  the  hands  of  a  man  in  gray  when 
Fred,  dropping  his  sketch-book,  had  bent  to  drag  a 
wounded  soldier  from  under  an  overturned  caisson. 
He  carried  no  scar,  however,  in  his  heart.  That 
organ  beat  with  as  keen  a  sympathy  and  as  warm  a 
spirit  of  camaraderie  as  it  did  when  it  first  opened 
itself  to  Oliver's  miseries  in  Union  Square. 

Jack  Bedford,  gaunt  and  strong  of  limb,  looking 
a  foot  taller,  had  more  than  once  been  compelled  to 
lay  down  his  painter's  palette  and  take  up  the  sign- 
painter's  brush,  and  the  tell-tale  wrinkles  about  his 
ejes  and  the  set  look  about  his  mouth  testified  but 
too  plainly  to  the  keenness  of  his  sufferings. 

And  Oliver — 

Ah!  what  of  Oliver,  and  of  the  changes  in  him 
since  that  fatal  night  in  Kennedy  Square  when  he  had 
been  driven  away  from  his  home  and  made  an  out 
cast  because  he  had  been  brave  enough  to  defend  a 
helpless  man? 

You  can  see  at  a  glance,  as  you  watch  him  standing 
by  the  big  easel,  his  coat  off,  to  give  his  arm  freer  play, 
squeezing  the  tubes  of  color  on  his  palette,  that  he  is 
not  the  boy  you  knew  some  years  ago.  He  is,  you 
will  admit,  as  strong  and  alert-looking  as  he  was  that 

morning  when  he  cleared  the  space  in  fron*  of  Mar 

426 


THE  STOKE  MUGS 

garet's  brother  with  a  cart-rung.  You  will  concede, 
too,  that  the  muscles  about  his  chest  and  throat  are 
as  firmly  packed,  the  eyes  as  keen,  and  the  smile  as 
winning,  but  you  will  acknowledge  that  the  boy  in 
him  ends  there.  As  you  look  the  closer  you  will  note 
that  the  line  of  the  jaw  is  more  cleanly  cut  than  in 
his  younger  days;  that  the  ears  are  set  closer  to  the 
finely  modelled  head;  that  the  nose  is  more  aquiline, 
the  eyes  deeper,  and  that  the  overhanging  brow  is 
wrinkled  with  one  or  more  tight  knots  that  care  has 

tied,  and  which  onlv  loosen  when  his  face  breaks  into 

* 
•one  of  his  old-time  smiles.    The  mustache  is  still  there 

— the  one  which  Sue  once  laughed  at;  but  it  has  lost 
its  silky  curl  and  stands  straight  out  now  from  the 
corners  of  his  mouth,  its  points  reaching  almost  to 
the  line  of  his  ears.  There  is,  too,  beneath  it  a  small 
imperial,  giving  to  his  face  the  debonair  look  of  a  cav 
alier,  and  which  accentuates  more  than  any  other 
one  thing  his  Southern  birth  and  training.  As  you 
follow  the  subtle  outlines  of  his  body  you  find  too, 
that  he  is  better  proportioned  than  he  was  in  his  early 
manhood;  thinner  around  the  waist,  broader  across 
the  shoulders;  pressed  into  a  closer  mold;  more  com 
pact,  more  determined-looking.  But  for  the  gleam 
that  now  and  then  flashes  out  of  his  laughing  eyes 
and  the  winning  smile  that  plays  about  his  mouth, 
you  would,  perhaps,  think  that  the  years  of  hardship 
through  which  he  has  passed  have  hardened  his  nat 
ure.  But  you  would  be  wrong  about  the  hardening 

437 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVEE  HORN 

process,  although  you  would  have  been  entirely  right 
about  the  hardship. 

They  had,  indeed,  been  years  of  intense  suffering, 
full  of  privations,  self-denial,  and  disappointments, 
not  only  in  his  New  York  home  but  in  Kennedy 
Square,  whenever  at  long  intervals  he  had  gone  back 
to  the  old  house  to  cheer  its  inmates  in  their  loneli 
ness — a  loneliness  relieved  only  by  the  loyalty  of  old 
Malachi  and  Hannah  and  the  affection  and  sympathy 
of  their  immediate  relatives  and  of  such  close  friends 
as  Amos  Cobb,  who  had  never  left  his  post,  Miss  Clen- 
denning,  Dr.  Wallace,  Nathan  and  some  others. 
But  this  sympathy  had  not  always  been  extended  to 
Oliver — not  by  his  old  schoolmates  and  chums  at 
least.  Even  Sue  had  passed  him  in  the  street  with  a 
cold  stare  and  not  a  few  of  the  other  girls- — girls  he 
had  romped  with  many  a  night  through  the  cool  paths 
of  Kennedy  Square,  had  drawn  their  skirts  aside  as 
he  passed  lest  he  should  foul  them  with  his  touch. 

But  his  courage  had  not  wavered  nor  had  his 
strength  failed  him.  The  same  qualities  that  had 
made  Richard  stick  to  the  motor  were  in  his  own 
blood.  His  delicately  modelled  slender  fingers, 
white  as  ivory,  and  as  sure  as  a  pair  of  callipers 
— so  like  his  father's — and  which  as  we  watch 
him  work  so  deftly  arranging  the  colors  on  his 
palette,  adjusting  the  oil-cup,  trying  the  points  of 
the  brushes  on  his  thumb-nail,  gathering  them  in  a 

sheaf  in  his  left  hand  as  they  answer  his  purpose,  had 

4-28 


THE  STONE  MUGS 

served  him  in  more  ways  than  one  since  he  took  that 
midnight  ride  back  from  his  old  home  in  Kennedy 
Square.  These  same  hands  that  look  so  white  and 
well-kept  as  he  stands  by  his  easel  in  the  full  glare 
of  the  gas-jets,  had  been  his  sole  reliance  during  these 
days  of  toil  and  suffering.  They  had  provided  all  the 
bread  that  had  gone  into  his  mouth,  and  every  stitch 
of  clothes  that  had  covered  his  back.  And  they  had 
not  been  over-particular  as  to  how  they  had  accom 
plished  it  nor  at  what  hours  or  places.  They  had 
cleaned  lithographic  stones,  the  finger-nails  stained 
lor  weeks  \vith  colored  inks;  they  had  packed  hard 
ware;  they  had  driven  a  pen  far  into  the  night  on 
space  work  for  the  daily  papers;  they  had  carried 
a  dinner-pail  to  and  from  his  lodgings  to  the  factory 
two  miles  away  where  he  had  worked — very  little 
in  this  pail  some  of  the  time;  they  had  posted  ledg 
ers,  made  office-fires,  swept  out  stores — anything 
and  everything  that  his  will  compelled,  and  his  ne 
cessities  made  imperative.  And  they  had  done  it 
all  forcefully  and  willingly,  with  the  persistence 
and  sureness  of  machines  accomplishing  a  certain 
output  in  so  many  hours.  Joyfully  too,  sustained 
and  encouraged  by  the  woman  he  loved  and  whose 
heart  through  all  his  and  her  vicissitudes  was  still 
his  own. 

All  this  had  strengthened  him ;  had  taught  him  that 
any  kind  of  work,  no  matter  how  menial,  was  wo.rthy 

of  a  gentleman,  so  long  as  his  object  was  obtained — • 

429 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

in  this  case  his  independence  and  his  livelihood.  It 
had  been  a  bitter  experience  at  first,  especially  for  a 
Southerner  brought  up  as  he  had  been;  but  he  had 
mastered  it  at  last.  His  early  training  had  helped 
him,  especially  that  part  which  he  owed  to  his  mother, 
who  had  made  him  carry  the  market-basket  as  a  boy, 
to  humble  a  foolish  and  hurtful  pride.  He  was 
proud  enough  of  it  now. 

But  never  through  all  these  privations  had  these 
same  white  hands  and  this  tired  body  and  brain  been 
so  occupied  that  they  could  not  find  time  during  some 
one  of  the  hours  of  the  day  and  night  to  wield  the 
brush,  no  matter  how  urgent  had  been  the  call  for 
the  week's  board — wielding  it,  too,  so  lovingly  and 
knowingly,  and  with  such  persistency,  that  to-night 
although  still  poor — he  stood  recognized  as  a  rising 
man  by  the  men  in  the  front  rank  of  the  painters  of 
his  time. 

And  with  his  mother's  consent,  too.  ~Not  that  he 
had  asked  it  in  so  many  words  and  stood  hesitating, 
fearing  to  take  the  divergent  path  until  he  could 
take  her  willing  blessing  with  him.  He  had  made  his 
decision  firmly  and  against  her  wishes.  She  had  kept 
silent  at  first,  and  had  watched  his  progress  as  she  had 
watched  his  baby  steps,  tearfully — prayerfully  at 
times — standing  ready  to  catch  him  if  he  fell.  But 
that  was  over  now.  The  bigness  of  her  vision  cov 
ering  margins  wide  enough  for  new  impressions,  im 
pressions  which  her  broad  mind,  great  enough  and 

430 


THE  STONE  MUGS 

honest  enough  to  confess  its  mistakes,  always 
corned  and  understood,  had  long  since  made  clear 
to  her  what  in  her  early  anxiety  she  had  ignored: 
—that  if  her  son  had  inherited  the  creative  and 
imaginative  gifts  of  his  father  (those  gifts  which 
she  so  little  understood),  he  had  also  inherited 
from  her  a  certain  spirit  of  determination,  to 
gether  with  that  practical  turn  of  mind  which  had 
given  the  men  of  her  own  family  their  eminence.  In 
proof  of  this  she  could  not  but  see  that  the  instability 
which  she  had  so  dreaded  in  his  earlier  years  had 
given  way  to  a  certain  fixedness  of  purpose  and  firm 
self-reliance.  The  thought  of  this  thrilled  her  as- 
nothing  else  in  his  whole  career  had  ever  done.  All 
these  things  helped  reconcile  her  to  his  choice  of  a 
profession. 

Oliver,  now  thoroughly  warm  and  dry,  busied  him 
self  getting  his  brushes  and  paints  together  and 
scraping  off  one  of  Fred's  palettes.  Bianchi's  bald 
head  and  fat,  red,  smooth-shaven  face  with  its  double 
chin — time  had  not  dealt  leniently  with  the  distin 
guished  lithographer — had  inspired  our  hero  to  at 
tempt  a  "  Franz  Hals  smear,"  as  Waller  called  it,  and 
the  Pole,  when  he  arrived,  was  to  sit  for  him  in 
the  costume  of  an  old  Dutch  burgomaster,  the 
big  white  ruff  furnishing  the  high  lights  in  the 
canvas. 

By  the  time  Oliver  had  arranged  his  palette  the 

club  had  settled  itself  for  work,  the  smoke  from  the 

431 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVEE  HOKN 

pipes  floating  in  long  lines  toward  the  ceiling,  befog 
ging  the  big  white  albatross  that  hung  from  a  wire  in 
the  skylight.  Munson,  who  had  rubbed  in  a  back 
ground  of  bitumen  over  a  square  tile,  sat  next  to 
Fred,  who  was  picking  out,  with  the  end  of  a  wooden 
match,  the  outlines  of  an  army-wagon  sketched  on  a 
plate  smeared  with  color.  Simmons  was  looking  over 
a  portfolio  that  Watson,  a  new  member,  had  brought 
with  him,  filled  with  a  lot  of  his  summer  sketches 
made  on  the  Normandy  coast. 

One  view  of  the  fish-market  at  Dieppe  caught  Oli 
ver's  eye.  The  slant  of  light  burnishing  the  roof 
of  the  church  to  silver  and  flooding  the  pavement  of 
the  open  square,  crowded  with  black  figures,  the 
whit<*  caps  of  the  fish-women  indicated  by  crisp  pats 
of  the  brush,  pleased  our  painter  immensely. 

"  Charming,  old  man,"  said  Oliver,  turning  to 
Watson,  "  How  long  did  it  take  you?  " 

"  About  four  hours." 

"  Looks  like  it,"  growled  Waller,  reaching  over 
Oliver's  shoulder  and  drawing  the  sketch  toward  him. 
"  That's  the  gospel  of  '  smear,'  Horn,"  and  he  tossed 
it  back.  "  Not  a  figure  in  the  group  has  g»t  any 
drawing  in  it." 

Waller  had  set  his  face  against  the  new  out-door 
school,  and  never  lost  a  chance  to  ridicule  it. 

"  That's  not  what  Watson  is  after,"  exclaimed  Oli 
ver.  "  The  figures  are  mere  accessories.  The  domi 
nating  light  is  the  thing ;  he's  got  that  " — and  he  held 

432 


THE  STOOTE  MUGS 

the  sketch  close  to  the  overhead  gas-jets  so  that  the 
members  could  see  it  the  better. 

"  Dominating  light  be  hanged!  What's  the  use  of 
slobbering  puddles  of  paint  over  a  canvas  and  calling 
it  plein  air,  or  impressionism,  or  out-of-doors,  or  some 
such  rot?  Get  down  to  business  and  draw.  When 
you  have  done  that  you  can  talk.  It  can't  be  done  in 
four  hours,  and  if  some  of  you  fellows  keep  on  the 
way  you're  going,  you'll  never  do  it  in  four  years." 

"  A  four  hours'  sketch  handled  as  Watson  has 
tjjis,"  said  Oliver,  thoughtfully,  "  is  better  than  four 
years'  work  on  one  of  your  Hudson  Bivery  things. 
The  sun  doesn't  stand  still  long  enough  for  a  man 
to  get  more  than  an  expression  of  what  he  sees — that 
is  if  he's  after  truth.  The  angle  of  shadow  changes 
too  quickly,  and  so  do  the  reflected  lights." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  next  day?  "  burst  out 
Waller.  "  Can't  you  take  up  your  sketch  where  you 
left  off  ?  You  talk  as  if  every  great  picture  had  to  be 
painted  before  luncheon." 

"  But  there  is  no  '  next  day,'  "  interrupted  Wat 
son.  "  I  entirely  agree  with  Horn."  He  had  been 
listening  to  the  discussion  with  silent  interest.  "  ISTo 
next  day  like  the  one  on  which  you  began  your  can 
vas.  The  sky  is  different — gray,  blue,  or  full  of 
fleecy,  sunny  clouds.  Your  shadows  are  more  purple, 
or  blue  or  gray,  depending  on  your  sky  overhead, 
and  so  are  your  reflections.  If  you  go  on  and  try  to 

piece  out  your  sketch,  you  make  an  almanac  of  it — • 

433 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

not  a  portrait  of  what  you  saw.  I  can  pick  out  the 
Mondays,  Tuesdays,  and  Wednesdays  on  that  kind  of 
a  sketch  as  soon  as  I  see  it.  Nature  is  like  a  bird — 
if  you  want  to  surprise  her,  you  must  let  go  both 
barrels  when  she  rises;  if  you  miss  her  at  your  first 
shot  you  will  never  have  another  chance — not  at  that 
particular  bird." 

"  Well,  but  suppose  you  do  happen  to  have  two 
days  alike,"  insisted  Waller.  "  I  have  seen  thirty 
days  on  a  stretch  in  Venice  without  a  cloud.  What 
then?  "  The  bird  simile  had  evidently  not  appealed 
to  the  great  critic. 

"  Then  ten  chances  to  one  you  are  not  the  same 
man  you  were  the  day  before/''  replied  Watson, 
calmly,  laying  down  his  pipe.  "  You  have  had  bad 
news  from  home  or  your  liver  is  out  of  order,  or  worse 
still,  you  have  seen  some  new  subject  which  has  taken 
hold  of  you  and  your  first  enthusiasm  has  oozed  away. 
If  you  persist  in  going  on  you  will  either  undo  what 
you  did  yesterday  or  you  will  trust  to  your  memory 
of  wrhat  you  think  yesterday  was,  to  finish  your  sketch 
by.  The  first  fills  it  full  of  lies  and  the  second  full 
of  yourself;  neither  have  anything  to  do  with  nature. 
Four  hours,  Waller,  not  a  minute  more.  You'll  come 
to  it  before  you  die." 

"  That  depends  on  what  you  have  got  to  paint 
with,"  snapped  out  Jack  Bedford,  who  was  trying 
to  clean  a  dingy-looking  palette  with  a  knife. 

"Whose  dirt-dump  is  this,  anyhow? "  and  he  held  it 

434 


THE  STONE  MUGS 

up  to  view.  "  Might  as  well  try  to  get  sunlight  out 
of  powdered  brick.  .  Look  at  that  pile  of  mud,"  and 
he  pointed  to  some  dry  color  near  the  thumb-hole. 

"  Which  palette?  "  came  a  voice. 

Jack  held  it  up  for  the  inspection  of  the  room. 

"  Oh,  that's  Parker  Ridgway's,"  answered  Fred 
*'  He  was  here  the  other  day  and  made  a  half -hour's 
.sketch  of  a  model  I  had." 

The  announcement  of  Ridgway's  name  was  greeted 
with  shouts  of  laughter.  He  was  a  society  painter 
of  the  day,  pupil  of  Winterhalter  and  Meyer  von 
Bremen,  and  had  carried  off  more  portraits  and  at 
higher  prices  than  all  the  other  men  put  together. 

"  Keep  on!  keep  on!  Laugh  away,"  grumbled  Wal 
ler  squeezing  a  tube  of  Prussian  blue  on  his  palette. 
"  When  any  one  of  you  fellows  can  get  $4,000  for  a 
season's  work  you  can  talk;  until  you  do,  you  can 
keep  your  mouths  shut  as  tight  as  Long  Island 
clams." 

"Who  got  it?" 

"  The  Honorable  Parker  Ridgway,  R.A.,  P.Q., 
and  I  don't  know  but  X.Y.Z.,"  roared  Waller. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  how?  "  asked  Watson,  reaching 
over  Fred's  arm  for  the  bottle  of  turpentine. 

"  That's  what  he  did,"  snapped  out  Waller. 

"Did  what?" 

"  Knew  how." 

"  But  he  doesn't  know  how,"  cried  Munson  from 
across  the  table.  "  I  sat  alongside  of  that  fellow  at  the 

435 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Ecole  for  two  years.  He  can't  draw,  and  never  could. 
His  flesh  was  beastly,  his  modelling  worse,  and  his 
technique — a  botch.  You  can  see  what  color  he 
uses,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  palette  Jack  was  trying 
to  clean. 

"  Granted,  my  boy,"  said  Waller.  "  I  didn't  say 
he  could  paint;  I  said  he  knew  how  to  earn  $4,000  in 
three  months  painting  portraits." 

"  He  never  painted  a  portrait  worth  four  cents. 
Why,  I  knew " 

"  Dry  up,  Munson!  "  interrupted  Jack.  "  Go  on, 
Waller,  tell  us  how  he  did  it." 

"  By  using  some  horse-sense  and  a  little  tact;  get 
ting  in  with  the  procession  and  holding  his  end  up," 
retorted  Waller,  in  a  solemn  tone. 

"  Give  him  room!  Give  him  room!  "  cried  Oliver, 
with  a  laugh,  pouring  a  little  dryer  into  his  oil-cup. 
He  loved  to  hear  Waller  talk.  "  He  flings  his  words 
about  as  if  they  were  chunks  of  coal,"  he  would  al 
ways  say. 

The  great  man  wheeled  his  chair  around  and  faced 
the  room.  Oliver's  words  had  sounded  like  a  chal 
lenge. 

"  Keep  it  up ! — pound  away,"  he  cried,  his  face 
reddening.  "  I've  watched  Ridgway  ever  since  he 
arrived  here  last  spring,  and  I  will  give  you  his 
recipe  for  success.  He  didn't  fall  overboard  into  a 
second-rate  club  as  soon  as  he  got  here  and  rub  his 

brushes  on  his  coat-sleeve  to  look  artistic.    Not  much! 

436 


THE   STONE   MUGS 

He  had  his  name  put  up  at  the  Union ;  got  Croney  to 
cut  his  clothes,  and  Leary  to  make  his  hats,  played 
croquet  with  the  girls  he  knew,  drove  tandem — his 
brother-in-law's — and  dined  out  every  night  in  the 
week.  Every  day  or  two  he  would  haul  out  one  of  his 
six-foot  canvases,  and  give  it  a  coat  of  bitumen.  Al 
ways  did  this  when  some  club  swell  was  around  who 
would  tell  about  it." 

"  Did  it  with  a  sponge,"  muttered  Munson.  "  Old 
trick  of  his!" 

"  Xext  thing  he  did,"  continued  Waller,  ignoring 
Hanson's  aside,  "  was  to  refuse  a  thousand-dollar 
commission  offered  by  a  vulgar  real-estate  man  to 
paint  a  two-hundred-pound  pink-silk  sofa-cushion  of  a 
wife  in  a  tight-fitting  waist.  This  spread  like  the 
measles.  It  was  the  talk  of  the  club,  of  dinner-tables 
and  piazzas,  and  before  sundown  Ridgway's  exclusive- 
ness  in  taste  and  artistic  instincts  were  established. 
Then  he  hunted  up  a  pretty  young  married  woman 
occupying  the  dead-centre  of  the  sanctified  social 
circle,  went  into  spasms  over  her  beauty — so  classic, 
such  an  exquisite  outline;  grew  confidential  with  the 
husband  at  the  club,  and  begged  permission  to  make 
just  a  sketch  only  the  size  of  his  hand — wanted  it  for 
his  head  of  Sappho,  Berlin  Exhibition.  Next  he 
rented  a  suite  of  rooms,  crowded  in  a  lot  of  borrowed 
tapestries,  brass,  Venetian  chests,  lamps  and  hang 
ings;  gave  a  tea — servants  this  time  in  livery — ex 
hibited  his  Sappho ;  refused  a  big  price  for  it  from  the 

437 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

husband;  got  orders  instead  for  two  half-lengths, 
$1,500  each,  finished  them  in  two  weeks,  declined 
more  commissions  on  account  of  extreme  fatigue ;  dis 
appeared  with  the  first  frost  and  the  best  cottage 
people;  booked  three  more  full-lengths  in  New  York 
— two  to  be  painted  in  Paris  and  the  other  on  his  re 
turn  in  the  spring;  was  followed  to  the  steamer  by 
.a  bevy  of  beauties,  half-smothered  in  flowers,  and  dis- 
.appeared  in  a  halo  of  artistic  glory  just  $4,000  in." 

Fred  broke  out  into  a  roar,  in  which  the  whole 
room  joined. 

"  And  you  call  that  art,  do  you?  "  cried  Munson, 
laying  down  his  palette.  His  face  was  flushed,  his 
•eyes  snapping  with  indignation. 

"  I  do,  my  babbling  infant,"  retorted  Waller.  "  I 
call  it  the  art  of  making  the  most  of  your  opportuni 
ties  and  putting  your  best  foot  foremost.  That'a. 
a  thing  you  fellows  never  seem  to  understand.  You 
want  to  shuffle  around  in  carpet-slippers,  live  in  a 
:garret,  and  wait  until  some  money-bags  climbs  up 
your  crazy  staircases  to  discover  you.  Ridgway  puts 
his  foot  in  a  patent-leather  pump  and  silk  stocking, 
and  never  steps  on  a  carpet  that  isn't  two  inches  thick. 
Merchants,  engineers,  manufacturers,  and  even  scien 
tists,  when  they  have  anything  to  sell,  go  where  there 
is  somebody  to  buy;  why  shouldn't  an  artist?  " 

"  Just  like  a  fakir  peddling  cheap  jewelry,"  said 
Stedman,  in  a  low  voice,  sending  a  cloud  of  smoke  to 

the  ceiling. 

438 


THE  STONE  MUGS 

"  Or  a  bunco-man  trading  watches  with  a  farmer,," 
remarked  Jack  Bedford.  "  What  do  you  say,  My 
Lord  Tom-Noddy  "  — and  he  slapped  Oliver  on  the 
back.  The  sobriquet  was  one  of  Jack's  pet  names  for 
Oliver — all  the  Kennedy  Square  people  were  more 
or  less  aristocrats  to  Jack  Bedford,  the  sign-painter — 
all  except  Oliver. 

"  I  think  Waller's  about  half-right,  Jack.  As  far 
as  Ridgway's  work  goes,  you  know  and  I  know  that 
there  isn't  one  man  or  woman  out  of  a  hundred 
among  his  brother-in-law's  friends  who  knows 
whether  it's  good  or  bad— that's  the  pity  of  it.  If 
it's  bad  and  they  buy  it,  that's  their  fault  for  not 
knowing  any  better,  not  Ridgway's  fault  for  doing 
the  best  he  knows  how.  By  silk  stockings  and  pumps 
I  suppose  Waller  means  that  Ridgway  dressed  him- 
self  like  a  gentleman,  had  his  hair  cut,  and  paid  some 
attention  to  his  finger-nails.  That's  why  they  were 
glad  to  see  him.  The  day  has  gone  by  when  a  painter 
must  affect  a  bob-tailed  velveteen  jacket,  long  hair, 
and  a  slouch  hat  to  help  him  paint,  just  as  the  day  has 
gone  by  when  an  artist  is  not  an  honored  guest  in 
any  gentleman's  house  in  town." 

"  Bravo,  Tom-Noddy!  "  shouted  Jack  and  Fred  in 
a  breath.  "  Drink,  you  dear  old  pressed  brick.  Put 
your  nose  into  this !  "  and  Fred  held  a  mug  of  beer  to 
Oliver's  lips. 

Oliver  laid  down  his  sheaf  of  brushes — buried  his 

nose  in  the  cool  rim  of  the  stone  mug,  the  only  bev- 

439 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

erage  the  club  permitted,  and  was  about  to  continue 
his  talk,  when  his  eye  rested  on  Bianchi,  who  was 
standing  in  the  open  door,  his  hand  upraised  so  as  to 
bespeak  silence. 

"  Here — you  beautiful,  bald-headed  old  burgo 
master!  "  shouted  Oliver.  "  Get  into  your  ruff  right 
away.  Been  waiting  half  an  hour  for  you  and— 

Bianchi  put  his  fingers  to  his  lips  with  a  whispered 
hush,  knit  his  brow,  and  pointed  significantly  behind 
him.  Every  eye  turned,  and  a  breathless  silence  fell 
upon  the  group,  followed  by  a  scraping  of  chairs  on 
the  floor  as  each  man  sprang  to  his  feet. 

Bianchi's  surprise  had  arrived! 


CHAPTER    XXI 

"  THE    WOMAN    IN    BLACK  " 

In  the  doorway,  immediately  behind  Bianchi  and 
looking  over  the  little  man's  head,  stood  a  woman  of 
perhaps  forty  years  of  age  in  full  evening  toilet. 
About  her  head  was  wound  a  black  lace  scarf,  and 
hanging  from  her  beautiful  shoulders,  half-concealing 
a  figure  of  marvellous  symmetry,  was  a  long  black 
cloak,  open  at  the  throat,  trimmed  with  fur,  and  lined 
with  watermelon  pink  silk.  Tucked  in  her  hair  was 
a  red  japonica.  She  was  courtesying  to  the  room 
with  all  the  poise  and  graciousness  of  a  prima  donna 
saluting  an  audience. 

Oliver  sprang  for  his  coat  and  was  about  to  cram 
his  arms  into  the  sleeves,  when  she  cried: 

"  Oh,  please  don't!  I  wish  I  could  wear  a  coat 
myself,  so  that  I  could  take  it  off  and  paint.  Oh! 
the  smell  of  the  lovely  pipes !  It's  heavenly,  and  it's 
so  like  home.  Really,"  and  she  looked  about  her, 
a  this  is  the  only  place  I  have  seen  in  America  that  I 
can  breathe  in.  I've  heard  of  you  all  winter  and  I 
so  wanted  to  come.  I  would  not  give  dear  Bianchi 
any  rest  till  he  brought  me.  Oh!  I'm  so  glad  to  be 
here." 

Ml 


THE  FOETUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Oliver  and  the  others  were  still  standing,  looking 
in  amazement  at  the  new-comer.  One  of  the  unwrit- 
ten  laws  of  the  club  was  that  no  woman  should  ever 
enter  its  doors,  a  law  that  until  this  moment  had 
never  been  broken. 

While  she  was  speaking  Bianchi  stepped  back,  and 
took  the  tips  of  the  woman's  fingers  within  his  own. 
"When  she  had  finished  he  thrust  out  one  foot  and, 
with  the  bow  of  an  impresario  introducing  a  new 
songstress,  said: 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  Stone  Mugs,  I  have  the  honor 
of  presenting  you  to  the  Countess  Kovalski." 

Again  the  woman  courtesied,  sweeping  the  floor 
with  her  black  velvet  skirt,  broke  out  into  a  laugh, 
handed  her  cloak  and  scarf  to  Bianchi,  who  threw 
them  over  the  shoulders  of  the  lay  figure,  and  moved 
toward  the  table,  Fred,  as  host,  drawing  out  a  chair 
for  her. 

"  Oh! — what  lovely  beginnings — "  she  continued, 
examining  the  sketches  with  her  lorgnette,  after 
the  members  had  made  their  salutations,  "  Let  me 
make  one.  I  studied  two  years  with  Achenbach. 
You  did  not  know  that  Bianchi,  did  you?  There  are 
so  many  things  you  do  not  know,  you  lovely  man." 
She  was  as  much  at  home  as  if  she  had  been  there 
every  evening  of  her  life. 

Still,  with  the  same  joyous  self-contained  air  she 
settled  herself  in  Fred's  proffered  chair,  picked  up 

one  of  Jack's  brushes,  reached  over  his  shoulder,  and 

44-2 


"THE  WOMA^  IN  BLACK" 

with  a  "  please-hold-still,  thank  you,"  scooped  up  a 
little  yellow  ochre  from  his  palette,  and  unloaded  it 
on  a  corner  of  a  tile.  Then,  stripping  off  her  bracelets, 
she  piled  them  in  a  heap  before  her,  selected  a  Greek 
coin  dangling  from  the  end  of  one  of  them,  propped 
it  up  on  the  table  and  began  to  paint;  the  men, 
all  of  whom  were  too  astonished  to  resume  their 
work,  crowding  about  her,  watching  the  play  of 
her  brush;  a  brush  so  masterful  in  its  technique 
that  before  the  picture  was  finished  the  room  broke 
out  in  unrestrained  applause. 

During  all  this  time  she  was  talking  in  German  to 
Crug,  or  in  French  to  Waller,  only  stopping  to  light 
a  fresh  cigarette  which  she  took  from  a  jewelled 
case  and  laid  beside  her.  She  could,  no  doubt,  have 
as  easily  lapsed  into  Russian,  Choctaw,  or  Chinese 
had  there  been  any  such  strange  people  about. 

When  the  men  had  resumed  their  customary  seats 
and  the  room  had  once  more  settled  to  work — it  had 
only  been  a  question  of  sex  that  had  destroyed  the 
equilibrium,  a  question  no  longer  of  value  now  that 
the  fair  intruder  could  really  paint — Oliver  bent 
over  her  and  said  in  his  most  gallant  manner : 

"  If  the  Countess  Kovalski  will  be  gracious  enough 
to  excuse  Bianchi  (he  had  never  left  her  elbow)  I 
will  try  and  make  a  burgomaster  of  him.  Perhaps 
you  will  help  me  tie  this  around  his  neck,"  and  he  held 
out  the  white  ruff.  He  had  put  on  his  coat  despite 
her  protest. 

443 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  What,  dear  Bianchi  in  a  ruff !  Oh !  how  perfectly 
charming!  That's  really  just  what  he  looks  like. 
I've  always  told  him  that  Rembrandt  ought  to  have 
seen  him.  Come,  you  sweet  man,  hold  up  your  beau 
tiful  Dutch  face." 

As  she  spoke  she  caught  the  ruff  from  Oliver's 
hand  and  stretched  out  her  bare  arms  toward  Bianchi. 
,"  No,  I'm  not  going  to  pose  now,"  protested  the 
Pole,  pushing  back  her  hands.  lt  You  can  get  me 
any  time.  Take  the  Countess,  Horn.  She'd  make 
a  stunner." 

"Yes!  Yes!  Please  do,"  she  laughed,  springing 
from  her  seat  and  clapping  her  hands  with  all  the 
gayety  and  joyousness  of  a  child  over  some  expected 
pleasure. 

Oliver  hesitated  for  an  instant,  as  he  looked  down 
into  her  eyes,  wondering  whether  his  brush  could 
do  justice  to  their  depth.  Then  he  glanced  at  her 
supple  figure  and  white  skin  in  contrast  to  the  black 
velvet,  its  edge  softened  by  the  fall  of  lace,  the  dom- 
inant,  insistent  note  of  the  red  japoiiica  in  her  blue- 
black  hair,  the  flesh  tones  brilliant  under  the  gas-jets. 
The  color  scheme  was  exactly  what  he  had  been  look 
ing  for  all  winter — black,  white,  and  a  touch  of  red. 

"  I  have  never  been  so  honored,  Madame.  Noth 
ing  could  give  me  greater  pleasure,"  he  answered, 
with  a  dry  smile.  "  May  I  escort  your  ladyship  to 
the  platform? "  And  he  held  out  his  hand  and  con 
ducted  her  to  the  stand  facing  the  big  easel. 

444 


"THE  WOMAN  IN  BLACK n 

Then  there  followed  a  scene  such  as  many  of  the 
Stone  Mugs  had  not  shared  in  since  they  left  the 
Latin  Quarter. 

The  Countess  stood  erect  on  the  raised  platform, 
with  head  up  and  slightly  turned,  the  full  glare  of 
the  gas-jets  falling  upon  her  neck  and  throat,  made 
all  the  more  brilliant  by  reason  of  the  dark  green 
walls  of  Fred's  studio,  which  formed  the  background 
behind  her.  One  arm  was  partly  raised,  a  lighted 
cigarette  between  her  fingers;  the  other  was  lost  in 
the  folds  of  the  velvet  gown.  She  posed  as  naturally 
aiic!  as  easily  as  if  she  had  done  nothing  else  all  her 
life,  and  with  a  certain  bravado  and  swing  that  en 
chanted  everybody  in  the  room. 

One  talent  demanded  of  the  artist  members  of  the 
club  when  they  sought  admission,  and  insisted  upon 
by  the  Committee,  was  the  ability,  possessed  in  a 
marked  degree  by  Oliver,  of  making  a  rapid,  telling 
sketch  from  life,  and  at  night.  So  expert  had  most 
of  the  members  become  that  many  of  their  pictures 
made  under  the  gas-light  were  as  correct  in  their 
color-values  as  those  done  in  the  day-time.  In  this 
Oliver  was  past-master.  Most  of  his  own  work  had 
to  be  done  under  artificial  light  during  the  long 
years  of  his  struggle. 

The  men — they  were  again  on  their  feet — crowded 
closer,  forming  a  circle  about  the  easel.  They  saw 
that  the  subject  appealed  to  Oliver,  and  they  knew 
how  much  better  he  could  paint  when  his  heart  was  in 

U5 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

his  work.  His  picture  of  Margaret  Grant  in  the  Tarn- 
o'-Shanter  cap,  the  best  portrait  at  the  last  exhibition, 
had  proved  that. 

Oliver  saw  the  interest  shown  in  his  work  and  put 
hJAiiself  on  his  mettle.  He  felt  that  not  only  his  own 
reputation,  but  the  honor  of  the  Stone  Mugs,  was  at 
stake.  He  felt,  too,  a  certain  pride  and  confidence 
in  the  sureness  of  his  touch — a  touch  that  the  woman 
he  loved  believed  in — one  she  had  really  taught  him 
herself.  He  began  by  blocking  in  with  a  bit  of  char* 
coal  the  salient  points  of  the  composition.  Fred  stood 
on  his  left  hand  holding  a  cigar-box  filled  with  tubes 
\&f  color,  ready  to  unscrew  their  tops  and  pass  them  to 
Oliver  as  he  needed  them. 

As  the  dark  background  of  greenish  black,  under 
the  vigorous  strokes  of  his  brush,  began  to  relieve  the 
flesh  tones,  and  the  coloring  of  the  lips  and  the  ja- 
ponica  in  the  hair  took  their  places  in  the  color- 
scheme,  a  murmur  of  applause  ran  through  the  room. 
"No  such  piece  of  night-work  had  ever  been  painted 
since  the  club  had  come  together,  and  certainly  not 
before. 

"  A  Fortuny,  by  thunder!  "  burst  out  Waller.  He 
had  been  the  first  man  to  recognize  Oliver's  talent  in 
the  old  days  and  had  always  felt  proud  of  his  fore 
sight. 

For  two  hours  Oliver  stood  before  his  canvas,  the 
Countess  resting  now  and  then,  floating  over  to  the 
piano,  as  Simmons  had  done,  running  her  fingers  over 

440 


"THE  WOMAN   IN  BLACK" 

its  keys,  or  breaking  out  into  Polish,  Hungarian,  or 
French  songs  at  the  pleasure  of  the  room.  During 
these  rests  Oliver  turned  the  picture  to  the  wall.  He 
did  not  wish  her  to  see  it  until  it  was  finished.  He 
was  trying  some  brush  tricks  that  Madge  loved,  some 
that  she  had  learned  in  Couture's  atelier,  and  whose 
full  effect  could  only  be  recognized  in  the  finished 
work. 

When  the  last  touches  of  Oliver's  brush  had  been 
laid  on  the  canvas,  and  the  modest  signature,  O.  H., 
as  yas  the  custom,  had  been  affixed  to  its  lower  left- 
hand  corner,  he  made  a  low  salaam  to  the  model  and 
whirled  the  easel  in  front  of  her. 

The  cry  of  delight  that  escaped  her  lips  was  not 
only  an  expression  of  her  pleasure,  but  it  convinced 
every  man  in  the  club  that  the  Countess's  technical 
knowledge  of  what  constituted  a  work  of  art  equalled 
her  many  other  accomplishments.  She  sat  looking  at 
it  with  thoughtful,  grave  face,  and  her  whole  manner 
changed.  She  was  no  longer  the  woman  who  had  so 
charmed  the  room.  She  was  the  connoisseur,  the  ex 
pert,  the  jury  of  last  resort.  Oliver  watched  her  with 
absorbing  interest  as  he  sat  wiping  his  forehead  with 
his  handkerchief. 

"  Monsieur  Horn,"  she  said,  slowly,  as  if  weighing 
each  word,  "  if  you  come  to  my  country  they  will 
cover  you  all  over  with  medals.  I  had  no  idea  any 
one  in  this  new  land  could  paint  as  you  do.  You  are 
a  master.  Permit  me,  Monsieur,  to  make  you  **»¥ 

447 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

obeisance —  ''  and  she  dipped  back  on  one  foot  and 
swept  the  floor  with  her  skirts. 

Oliver  laughed,  returned  the  bow  with  a  mock 
flourish,  and  began  rolling  down  his  shirt-cuffs;  a 
thrill  quivering  through  him — that  thrill  only  felt  by 
a  painter  when  he  is  conscious  that  some  work  of  his 
brush  has  reached  the  high-water  mark  of  his  abili 
ties.  Eor  only  the  artist  in  him  had  been  at  work. 
What  stirred  him  was  not  the  personality  of  the 
Countess — not  her  charm  nor  beauty  but  the  har 
mony  of  the  colors  playing  about  her  figure:  the 
reflected  lights  in  the  blue-black  of  her  hair;  the 
soft  tones  of  the  velvet  lost  in  the  shadows  of 
the  floor,  and  melting  into  the  walls  behind  her; 
the  high  lights  on  the  bare  shoulder  and  arms  divided 
by  the  severe  band  of  black;  the  subdued  grays  in 
the  fall  of  lace  uniting  the  flesh  tones  and  the  bodice ; 
and,  more  than  all,  the  ringing  note  of  red  sung  by 
the  japonica  tucked  in  her  hair  and  which  found  its 
only  echo  in  the  red  of  her  lips — red  as  a  slashed 
pomegranate  with  the  white  seed-teeth  showing 
through.  The  other  side  of  her  beautiful  self — the 
side  that  lay  hidden  under  her  soft  lashes  and  velvet 
touch,  the  side  that  could  blaze  and  scorch  and  burn 
to  cinders — that  side  Oliver  had  never  once  seen  nor 
thought  of. 

This  may  have  been  because,  while  his  fingers 
worked  on,  his  thoughts  were  somewhere  else,  and 

that  he  saw  another  face  as  he  mixed  his  colors,  and 

448 


"THE  WOMAN  IN  BLACK" 

not  that  of  the  siren  before  him.  Or  it  may  have  been 
that,  as  he  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  Countess,  he 
saw  too  deeply  into  the  whirlpool  of  passion  and  pain 
which  made  up  the  undercurrent  in  this  beautiful 
woman's  strange  life. 

'Not  so  the  others.  Many  of  whom  were  the  most 
serious-minded  of  men  where  women  were  concerned. 
Crug — who,  to  quote  Waller,  had  drifted  into  a  state 
of  mind  bordering  on  lunacy — was  so  completely 
taken  off  his  feet  that  he  again  led  her  ladyship  by 
fyer  finger-tips  to  the  piano,  and,  with  his  hand  on 
his  heart,  and  his  eyes  upraised,  begged  her  to  sing 
for  him  some  of  the  songs  of  her  native  land  and  in 
the  tongue  of  her  own  people;  the  Countess  com 
plying  so  graciously  and  singing  with  such  consum 
mate  taste  and  skill,  throwing  her  soul  into  every 
line,  that  the  men  soon  broke  out  in  rounds  of 
applause,  crowding  about  her  with  the  eagerness  of 
bees  around  a  hive — all  except  Waller  and  Oliver, 
who  sat  apart,  quietly  watching  her  out  of  the  cor 
ners  of  their  eyes. 

The  portrait  was  forgotten  now;  so  were  the 
sketches  and  tiles,  and  the  work  of  the  evening.  So 
was  everything  else  but  the  woman  who  dominated 
the  room.  She  kept  her  seat  on  the  piano-stool,  the 
centre  of  the  group,  as  a  queen  of  the  ballet  sits  on 
a  painted  throne,  flashing  her  eyes  from  one  to  the 
other,  wheeling  about  to  dash  off  an  air  from  some 

unknown  opera — unknown  to  those  who  listened — 

449 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

laying  her  lighted  cigarette  on  the  music-rack  as  she 
played,  and  whirling  back  again  to  tell  some  anecdote 
of  the  composer  who  wrote  it,  or  some  incident  con 
nected  with  its  production  in  Vienna  or  Warsaw  or 
St.  Petersburg — the  club  echoing  her  every  whim. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  therefore,  that  the  staid 
and  sober-minded  Stone  Mugs,  under  these  condi 
tions,  completely  lost  their  heads,  and  that  when  Oli 
ver  picked  up  an  empty  beer-mug,  the  symbol  of  the 
club  used  in  all  ceremonies,  and  began  filling  it  with 
the  names  of  the  members  which  he  had  written  on 
slips  of  paper,  preparatory  to  the  drawing  of  the  lot 
tery  for  the  picture  which  he  had  just  finished — every 
meeting-night  a  lottery  was  drawn,  the  lucky  winner 
possessing  the  picture  of  the  evening— Crug  and 
Munson  should  have  simultaneously  sprung  to  their 
feet,  and,  waving  their  hands  over  their  heads,  have 
proposed,  in  one  and  the  same  breath,  that  "  Our  dis 
tinguished  visitor  "  should  have  the  privilege  of  add 
ing  her  own  name  to  those  in  Oliver's  mug — the  pict 
ure  to  be  her  own  individual  property  should  her 
patronymic  be  the  first  to  be  drawn  from  its  open 
mouth. 

Waller  started  to  his  feet  to  object,  and  the  words 
of  protest  were  half  out  of  his  mouth  when  Oliver 
stopped  him.  A  woman  was  always  a  woman  to  Oli 
ver,  no  matter  what  her  past  or  present  station  in  life 
might  be.  It  was  her  sex  that  kept  him  loyal  when 

any  discourtesy  was  involved. 

450 


"THE  WOMAN  IN  BLACK" 

"  Keep  still,  old  man,"  he  whispered.  "  They've 
gone  crazy,  but  we  can't  help  it.  Get  on  your  feet 
and  vote." 

"When  the  sound  of  the  "  ayes  "  adopting  Crug  and 
Munson's  motion  had  died  away,  Oliver  inscribed  her 
initials  upon  a  small  piece  of  paper,  dropped  it  in  the 
mug,  held  it  high  above  the  lady's  head,  and  asked 
her  to  reach  up  her  dainty  fingers  and  pick  out  the 
name  of  the  lucky  possessor  of  "  The  Woman  in 
Black,"  as  the  picture  had  now  been  christened.  The 
\\ihite  arm  went  up,  the  jewelled  fingers  felt  about 
nervously  among  the  little  ballots,  and  then  the 
Countess  held  up  a  twisted  bit  of  paper. 

A  burst  of  applause  filled  the  room.  The  scrap  of 
paper  bore  the  initials  of  the  Countess!  "The 
Woman  in  Black  "  was  her  property. 

But  the  most  extraordinary  part  by  far  of  the 
evening's  performance  was  still  to  come. 

When  the  hour  of  midnight  had  arrived — the  hour 
of  dispersal,  a  rule  rarely  broken — the  Countess 
called  to  Bianchi  arid  directed  him  to  go  out  into  the 
hall  and  bring  in  her  long  black  stockings  and  stout 
shoes,  which  she  had  taken  off  outside  Fred's  door, 
and  which  she  had  left  hanging  on  a  nail. 

I  can  see  her  now — for  I,  too,  was  leaning  over  the 
same  table,  Oliver  beside  me,  watching  this  most 
extraordinary  woman  of  another  world,  a  woman  who 
had  been  the  idol  of  almost  every  capital  in  Europe, 

and  whom  I  knew  (although  Oliver  did  not)  had  been 

451 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER 

quietly  conducted  out  of  some  of  them  between  dark 
and  daylight — I  can  see  her  now,  I  say,  sitting  on  the 
piano-stool,  facing  the  group,  the  long,  black  silk 
stockings  that  Bianchi  had  brought  her  in  her  hands. 
I  remember  just  the  way  in  which,  after  loosening  her 
dainty,  red-heeled  slippers,  she  swept  aside  her  skirts, 
unfastened  her  garters,  and,  with  the  same  uncon 
sciousness  and  ease  with  which  she  would  have  slipped 
a  pair  of  rubbers  over  a  pair  of  shoes,  drew  the 
long  black  stockings  over  her  flesh-colored  ones, 
refastening  the  garters  again,  talking  all  the  time, 
first  to  one  and  then  the  other;  pausing  only  to  accen 
tuate  some  sentence  with  a  wave  of  her  shoe  or  stock 
ing  or  cigarette,  as  the  action  suited  the  words. 

That  the  group  about  her  was  composed  solely  of 
men  made  not  the  slightest  difference.  She  was  only 
trying  to  save  those  precious,  flesh-colored  silk 
stockings  that  concealed  her  white  skin  from  the  slush 
and  snow  of  the  streets.  As  to  turning  her  back  to 
her  hosts  during  this  little  change  of  toilet — that  was 
the  last  thing  that  entered  her  head.  She  would 
as  soon  have  stepped  into  a  closet  to  put  on  her 
gloves. 

And  then  again,  why  should  she  be  ashamed  of  her 
ankles  and  her  well-turned  instep  and  dainty  toes,  as 
compact  in  their  silk  covering  as  peas  in  a  pod!  She 
might  have  been,  perhaps,  in  some  one  of  the  satin 
lined  drawing-rooms  around  Madison  Square  or  Irv 
ing  Place,  but  not  here,  brer.thing  the  blue  smoke  of 


"THE  WOMAN  IN  BLACK" 

a  dozen  pipes  and  among  her  own  kind — the  kind  she 
had  known  and  loved  and  charmed  all  her  life. 

After  all  it  was  but  a  question  of  economy.  Broad 
way  was  a  slough  of  mud  and  slush,  and  neither  she 
nor  Bianchi  had  the  price  of  a  carriage  to  spare. 

Oliver  watched  her  until  the  whole  comedy  was 
complete;  then,  picking  up  his  wet. sketch  and  hand 
ing  it  with  the  greatest  care  to  Bianchi,  who  was  to 
conduct  her  ladyship  to  her  lodgings,  he  placed  the 
long  black  cloak  with  the  fur-trimming  and  water 
melon-colored  silk  lining  about  her  beautiful,  bare 
shoulders,  and,  with  the  whole  club  following  and 
waving  their  hands  good-night,  our  young  gentleman 
bowed  her  out  and  downstairs  with  all  the  deference 
and  respect  he  would  have  shown  the  highest  lady  in 
the  land. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

"  MAEGAEET     GEANT TOP    FLOOB  " 

One  spring  morning,  some  time  after  the  visit  of 
the  Countess  to  the  club  and  the  painting  of  her  por 
trait  by  Oliver — the  incident  had  become  the  talk  of 
the  studios  before  the  week  was  out — Oliver  sat  in 
his  own  rooms  on  the  top  floor,  drinking  his  coffee — 
the  coffee  he  had  boiled  himself.  The  janitor  had 
just  slipped  two  letters  through  a  slit  in  the  door. 
Both  lay  on  the  floor  within  reach  of  his  hand.  One 
was  from  his  mother,  bearing  the  postmark  of  his 
native  city;  the  other  was  from  a  prominent  picture- 
dealer  on  Broadway,  with  a  gallery  and  big  window 
looking  out  on  the  street. 

Oliver  broke  the  seal  of  his  mother's  letter,  and 
moved  his  chair  so  that  the  light  from  the  overhead 
skylight  would  fall  on  its  pages. 

It  read  as  follows : 

"  MY  DAELTNG  BOY:  Your  father  goes  to  you  to 
morrow.  Mr.  Cobb  was  here  last  night  with  a  letter 
from  some  gentleman  of  means  with  whom  he  has 
been  corresponding.  They  want  to  see  the  motor,  so 
your  father  and  Nathan  leave  on  the  early  train. 

"  This  man's  continued  kindness  is  a  constant  sur- 
454 


«  MARGARET   GRANT— TOP  FLOOR" 

prise  to  me.  I  have  always  thought  it  was  he  who  pre 
vented  the  mortgage  from  being  foreclosed,  but  I 
never  knew  until  yesterday  that  he  had  written  his 
name  under  my  own  the  second  time  the  note  was  to 
be  renewed,  and  that  he  has  kept  it  there  ever  since. 
I  cannot  speak  of  this  to  him,  nor  must  you,  if  you  see 
him,  for  poor  old  Mr.  Steiger  told  me  in  confidence. 
I  am  the  more  glad  now7  that  we  have  always  paid 
the  interest  on  the  note.  The  next  payment,  which 
you  have  just  sent  me,  due  on  the  first  of  the  month, 
is  now  in  my  bureau-drawer  ready  for  the  bank,  but 
1  will  not  have  to  use  it  now. 

"  "Whether  the  mortgage  can  ever  be  paid  off  I  do 
not  know,  for  the  farm  is  ruined,  I  fear.  Mr.  Mow- 
bray's  cousin,  who  drove  over  last  week  to  see  what 
was  left  of  the  plantations  in  that  section,  writes  me 
that  there  is  nothing  remaining  of  your  grandfather's 
place  but  the  bare  ground  and  the  house.  All  the 
fences  have  been  burned  and  many  of  the  beautiful 
trees  cut  down  for  fire\vood.  The  Government  still 
occupies  the  house  and  one  of  the  outbuildings,  al 
though  most  of  the  hospital  stores  have  been  moved 
away.  The  last  half-year's  rent  which  was  held  back, 
owing  to  some  new  ruling  from  Washington,  came,  I 
am  thankful  to  say,  two  days  ago  in  a  check  from  the 
paymaster  here,  owing  to  Mr.  Cobb's  intercession. 
lie  never  loses  an  opportunity  to  praise  you  for  what 
you  did  for  that  poor  young  soldier,  and  Mr.  Steiger 

told  me  that  when  those  in  authority  heard  from  Mr, 

455 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Cobb  which  Mrs.  Horn  it  was,  they  ordered  the  rent 
paid  at  once.  He  is  always  doing  just  such  kindnesses 
for  us.  But  for  this  rental  I  don't  know  how  we 
would  have  been  able  to  live  and  take  care  of  those 
dependent  upon  us.  We  little  knew,  my  son,  when 
we  both  strove  so  hard  to  save  the  farm  that  it  would 
really  be  our  only  support.  This  rent,  however,  will 
soon  cease  and  I  tremble  for  the  future.  I  can  only 
pray  my  Heavenly  Father  that  something  will  come 
out  of  this  visit  to  New  York.  It  is  our  only  hope 
now. 

"  Don't  lose  sight  of  your  father  for  a  moment, 
my  son.  He  is  not  well  and  gets  easily  fatigued, 
and  although  he  is  greatly  elated  over  his  promised 
success,  as  we  all  are — and  he  certainly  deserves  to 
be — I  think  you  will  see  a  great  change  in  him  these 
last  few  months.  I  would  not  have  consented  to  his 
going  had  not  Nathan  gone  with  him.  Nathan  insist? 
upon  paying  the  expenses  of  the  trip ;  he  says  it  is  only 
fair  that  he  should,  as  your  father  has  given  him  an 
interest  in  the  motor.  I  earnestly  hope  for  some  re 
sults,  for  I  shall  have  no  peace  until  the  whole  amount 
of  the  mortgage  is  paid  back  to  the  bank  and  you  and 
Mr.  Cobb  are  released  from  the  burden,  so  heavy  on 
you,  my  boy. 

"  There  is  no  other  news  to  tell  you.  Sue  Clayton 
brought  her  boy  in  to-day.  He  is  a  sweet  little  fellow 
and  has  Sue's  eyes.  She  has  named  him  John  Clay 
ton,  after  her  father.  They  have  made  another  at- 

456 


"MARGARET   GRANT— TOP  FLOOR" 

tempt  to  find  the  Colonel's  body  on  the  battle-field, 
but  without  success.  I  am  afraid  it  will  never  be 
recovered. 

"  Lavinia  sends  her  love.  She  has  been  much  bet 
ter  lately.  Her  army  hospital  work  has  weighed  upon 
her,  I  think.  Three  years  was  too  long. 

"  I  have  the  last  newspaper  notices  of  your  acad 
emy  picture  pinned  on  my  cushion,  and  I  show  them 
to  everybody  who  comes  in.  They  always  delight 
me.  You  have  had  a  hard  fight,  my  son,  but  you  are 
winning  now.  No  one  rejoices  more  than  I  do  in 
your  success.  As  you  said  in  your  last  letter,  the 
times  have  really  changed.  They  certainly  have  for 
me.  Sorrow  and  suffering  have  made  me  see  many 
things  in  a  different  light  these  last  few  years. 

"  Malachi  and  Hannah  are  well,  but  the  old  man 
seems  quite  feeble  at  times. 

"  Your  loving  mother,  • 

"SALLIE  T.  HOBN." 

Dear  lady,  with  your  soft  white  hair  and  deep 
brown  eyes  that  have  so  often  looked  into  mine! 
How  dreary  were  those  long  days  of  hate  and  misery! 
How  wise  and  helpful  you  were  to  every  living  soul 
who  sought  your  aid,  friend  and  foe  alike.  Your 
great  heart  sheltered  and  comforted  them  all. 

Oliver  read  the  letter  through  and  put  his  lips  to 
the  signature.  In  all  his  life  he  had  never  failed  to 

kiss  his  mother's  name  at  the  bottom  of  her  letters. 

457 


THE  FOBTUNES  OF  OUTER  HOBIST 

The  only  difference  was  that  now  he  kissed  them 
with  an  added  reverence.  The  fact  of  his  having 
proved  himself  right  and  her  wrong  in  the  choice  of 
his  profession  made  loyalty  with  him  the  more  tender. 

u  Dear,  dear  mother !  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  You 
have  had  so  much  trouble  lately,  and  you  have  been 
so  plucky  through  it  all."  He  stopped,  looked  dream 
ily  ac:->se  the  room,  and  added  with  a  sigh:  "  But  she 
has  not  said  one  word  about  Madge;  not  one  single 
word.  She  doesn't  answer  that  part  of  my  letter; 
she  doesn't  intend  to." 

Then  he  opened  the  other  communication  which 
read : 

"DEAR  ME.  HORN:  Please  call  here  in  the  morn 
ing.  I  have  some  good  news  for  you. 

"  JOHN    SNEDECOR." 

Oliver  turned  the  picture-dealer's  letter  over, 
peered  into  the  envelope  as  if  he  expected  to  find  some 
trace  of  the  good  news  tucked  away  in  its  corners, 
lifted  the  tray  holding  his  frugal  breakfast,  and  laid 
it  on  the  floor  outside  his  door  ready  for  the  janitor's 
morning  round.  Then,  picking  up  his  hat,  he  locked 
his  door,  hung  an  "  out  card  "  on  the  knob,  and, 
strolling  downstairs,  stepped  into  the  fresh  morning 
air.  He  knew  the  dealer  well.  He  had  placed  two 
of  old  Mr.  Crocker's  pictures  with  him — one  of  which 

had  been  sold. 

458 


"MAEGARET   GRAXT— TOP  FLOOR" 

When  he  reached  Snedecor's  gallery  he  found  the 
big  window  surrounded  with  a  crowd  gazing  intently 
at  an  upright  portrait  in  a  glittering  gold  frame,  to 
which  was  affixed  an  imposing-looking  name-plate 
bearing  the  inscription: 

"THE   WOMAN  IN  BLACK, 
BY  OLIVER  HORN  •• 

So  this  was  Snedecor's  good  news ! 

Oliver  made  his  way  through  the  crowd  and  into 
the  open  door  of  the  shop — the  shop  was  in  front, 
the  gallery  in  the  rear — and  found  the  proprietor 
leaning  over  a  case  filled  with  artists'  supplies. 

"  Has  she  had  it  framed,  Snedecor?  "  asked  Oliver, 
with  a  light  laugh. 

"  Not  to  any  alarming  extent !  I  made  that  frame 
for  Mr.  Peter  Fish.  She  sent  it  here  for  sale,  and 
Fish  bought  it.  He's  wild  about  it.  Says  it's  the  best 
thing  since  Sully.  He  wants  you  to  paint  his  daugh 
ter;  that's  what  I  wanted  to  see  you  about.  Great 
card  for  you,  Mr.  Horn.  I  congratulate  you!  " 

Oliver  gave  a  low  whistle.  His  own  good  fortune 
was  for  the  moment  forgotten  in  his  surprise  at  the 
woman's  audacity.  Selling  a  sketch  painted  by  one  of 
the  club!  one  which  had  virtually  been  given  to  her. 
"  Poor  Bianchi!  He  does  pick  up  the  queerest  peo 
ple.  I  wonder  if  she  was  out  of  stockings,"  he  said 
half-aloud. 

459 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  worry  about  the  Madame;  she 
won't  suffer  for  clothes  as  long  as  she's  got  that  pair 
of  eyes  in  her  head.  You  just  ought  to  have  seen 
her  handle  old  Fish.  It  was  beautiful.  But,  see 
here  now,  you  don't  want  to  make  old  Peter  a  present 
of  this  portrait  of  his  daughter.  He's  good  for  a 
thousand,  I  tell  you.  She  got  a  cracking  price  for 
that  one/'  and  he  pointed  to  the  picture. 

Again  Oliver  laughed. 

"A  cracking  price?  She  must  have  needed  the 
money  bad."  The  more  he  thought  of  it  the  funnier 
it  seemed. 

Snedecor  looked  surprised.  He  was  thinking  of 
Fish's  order  and  the  amount  of  his  commission.  Most 
of  Oliver's  remarks  were  unintelligible  to  him — es 
pecially  his  reference  to  the  stockings. 

"  "What  shall  I  say  to  him?  "  Snedecor  asked  at  last. 

"  Oh,  nothing  in  particular.  Just  send  him  to  my 
studio.  I'll  be  in  all  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Well,  but  don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  and 
see  him  yourself  now?  He's  too  big  a  bug  to  run 
after  people.  That  kind  of  thing  don't  come  every 
day,  you  know;  you  might  lose  it.  Why,  he  lives 
right  near  you  in  that  swell  house  across  the  Square." 

"  Oh,  I  know  him  very  well,"  said  Oliver,  nodding 
his  head.  "No,  let  him  come  to-morrow  to  me;  it 
won't  hurt  him  to  walk  up  three  nights  of  stairs.  I'm 
busy  to-day.  Now  I  think  of  it,  there's  one  thing, 
though,  you  can  tell  him,  and  please  be  particular 

460 


"MARGARET   GRAATT— TOP  FLOOR" 

about  it — there  will  be  no  advance  over  my  regular 
price.  I  don't  care  to  compete  with  her  ladyship." 

Without  waiting  to  hear  the  dealer's  protest  he 
stepped  outside  the  shop  and  joined  the  crowd  about 
the  window,  elbowing  each  other  for  a  better  view  of 
the  portrait.  "No  one  recognized  him.  He  was  too 
obscure  for  that.  They  might  after  this,  he  thought 
with  an  exultant  throb,  and  a  flush  of  pride  crossed 
his  face. 

As  he  walked  down  Broadway  a  sense  of  the 
humor  of  the  whole  situation  came  over  him.  Here 
for  years  he  had  been  working  day  and  night;  run 
ning  the  gauntlet  of  successive  juries  and  hanging 
committees,  with  his  best  things  rejected  or  skied 
antil  his  Tam-o'-Shanter  girl  made  a  hit;  worrying, 
hoping  against  hope,  racking  his  brain  as  to  how  and 
when  and  where  he  would  find  the  path  which  would 
lead  him  to  commercial  success — a  difficult  task  for 
one  too  proud  to  beg  for  favors  and  too  independ 
ent  to  seek  another's  aid — and  here,  out  of  the  clear 
sky,  had  come  this  audacious  Bohemienne,  the  pet  of 
foyer  and  studio — a  woman  who  presented  the  great 
est  number  of  contrasts  to  the  things  he  held  most 
dear  in  womankind — and  with  a  single  stroke  had 
cleared  the  way  to  success  for  him.  And  this,  too,  not 
from  any  love  of  him,  nor  his  work,  nor  his  future, 
but  simply  to  settle  a  board-bill  or  pay  for  a  bonnet. 

Again  Oliver  laughed,  this  time  so  loudly  that  the 

man  in  front  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

481 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  A  cracking  price,"  he  kept  repeating  to  himself, 
"a  cracking  price,  eh?  and  out  of  old  Peter  Fish! 
Went  fishing  for  minnows  and  hooked  a  whale,  and 
another  little  fish  for  me!  I  wonder  what  she  baited 
her  hook  with.  That  woman's  a  genius." 

Suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  the  sign  of  a  Long 
Island  florist  set  up  in  an  apothecary's  window  be 
tween  the  big  green  and  red  glass  globes  that  lined 
its  sides. 

Turning  on  his  heel  he  entered  the  door. 

"  Pick  me  out  a  dozen  red  japonicas,"  he  said  to 
the  boy  behind  the  counter. 

Oliver  waited  until  each  short-stemmed  blossom 
was  carefully  selected,  laid  on  its  bed  of  raw  cotton, 
blanketed  with  the  same  covering,  and  packed  in  a 
paper  box.  Then,  taking  a  card  from  his  pocket,  he 
wrote  upon  its  back:  "  Most  grateful  thanks  for  my 
share  of  the  catch,"  slipped  it  into  an  envelope,  ad 
dressed  it  to  "  The  fair  Fisher,  The  Countess  Koval- 
ski,"  and,  with  a  grim  smile  on  his  face,  kept  on  dowyn 
Broadway  toward  the  dingy  hotel,  the  resort  of  all 
the  Southerners  of  the  time,  to  arrange  for  rooms 
for  his  father  and  Nathan  Gill. 

Having,  with  his  card  and  his  japonicas,  dismissed 
the  Countess  from  his  mind,  and  to  a  certain  extent 
his  obligations,  the  full  importance  of  this  new  order 
of  Peter  Fish's  began  to  take  possession  of  him.  The 
color  rose  in  his  cheeks  and  an  old-time  spring  and 
lightness  came  into  his  steps.  He  knew  that  sucl  * 

462 


"MARGARET   GRANT— TOP  FLOOR" 

commission,  and  from  such  a  man,  would  at  once  gain 
for  him  a  recognition  from  art  patrons  and  a  standing 
among  the  dealers.  Lasting  success  was  now  assured 
him  in  the  line  he  had  chosen  for  his  life's  work.  It 
only  remained  for  him  to  do  the  best  that  was  in  him. 
Better  than  all,  it  had  come  to  him  unasked  and  with 
out  any  compromising  effort  on  his  own  part. 

He  knew  the  connoisseur's  collection.  It  filled  the 
large  gallery  adjoining  his  extensive  home  on  Wash 
ington  Square  and  was  not  only  the  best  in  the  city, 
containing  as  it  did  examples  of  Sir  Thomas  Law- 
rc*nce,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Chrome,  Sully,  and 
many  of  the  modern  French  school — among  them 
two  fine  Courbets  and  a  Rousseau — but  it  had  lately 
been  enriched  by  one  or  more  important  American 
landscapes,  notably  Sanford  Gifford's  "  Catskill 
Gorge  "  and  Church's  "  Tropics  " — two  canvases 
which  had  attracted  more  than  usual  attention  at 
the  Spring  Exhibition  of  the  Academy,  An  order, 
therefore,  for  a  family  portrait  from  so  distinguished 
a  patron  not  only  gave  weight  and  dignity  to  the  work 
of  any  painter  he  might  select,  but  it  would  unques 
tionably  influence  his  many  friends  and  acquaintances 
to  go  and  do  likewise. 

As  Oliver,  his  eyes  aglow,  his  whole  heart  filled 
with  joy,  stepped  quickly  down  the  street  the  beauty 
of  the  day  made  him  throw  back  his  shoulders 
and  drink  in  long  deep  breaths,  as  if  he  would  fill  his 

eery  pores  with  its  vitality.    These  early  spring  days 

463 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

in  New  York — the  most  beautiful  the  world  over; 
not  even  in  Italy  can  one  find  better  skies — always 
affected  him  in  this  way.  There  was  a  strength-giv 
ing  quality  in  the  ozone,  a  brilliancy  in  the  sunshine, 
and  a  tempered  coolness  in  the  air  to  be  found  no 
where  else.  There  was,  too,  a  certain  picturesqueness 
in  the  sky-line  of  the  houses — a  sky-line  fringed  with 
jets  of  white  steam  from  the  escape-pipes  of  numerous 
fires  below,  which  appealed  to  his  artistic  sense. 
These  curling  plumes  that  waved  so  triumphantly  in 
the  sparkling  morning  light,  or  stirred  by  the  wind, 
flapped  like  milk-white  signal  flags,  breaking  at  last 
into  tatters  and  shreds,  blurring  the  edges  of  chimney 
and  cornice,  were  a  constant  source  of  delight  to  the 
young  painter.  He  would  often  stop  to  watch  their 
movements,  and  as  often  determine  to  paint  them 
at  the  first  opportunity.  They  seemed  to  express  to 
him  something  of  the  happy  freedom  of  one  released 
from  pent-up  toil:  a  freedom  longed  for  in  his  own 
heart,  and  which  had  rarely  been  his  since  those 
blessed  days  under  Moose  Hillock,  when  he  and  Mar 
garet  roamed  the  woods  together. 

Still  a  third  cause  of  rejoicing — and  this  sent  a 
flutter  around  his  heart — was  the  near  prospect  of 
meeting  his  dear  old  father,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
months;  not  since  his  last  visit  home,  and  whose  long 
years  of  struggle  and  waiting  seemed  now  to  be  so 
nearly  ended. 

With  these  last  joyous  thoughts  filling  his  mind,  he 
464 


"MARGARET   GRANT- -TOP  FLOOR" 

stepped  quickly  through  the  corridor  of  the  hotel, 
approached  the  desk,  and  had  just  given  the  names 
of  his  father  and  Nathan  to  the  clerk,  when  a  man 
behind  the  counter  interrupted  him  with : 

"  Just  arrived.  Got  in  this  morning.  There  they 
are  by  the  window." 

Two  quaint-looking  old  gentlemen  were  gazing  out 
tipon  the  rush  of  Broadway—two  old  gentlemen 
so  unusual  that  even  the  habitues  of  the  place,  those 
who  sat  tilted  back  all  day  chipping  the  arms  of  their 
chairs  with  their  pen-knives,  or  sipping  countless 
toddles  and  juleps,  were  still  staring  at  them  in  un 
disguised  astonishment.  One — it  was  Nathan — wore 
a  queer  hat,  bushy,  white  hair,  and  long,  pen-wiper 
cloak:  it  was  the  same  cloak,  or  another  just  like  it; 
the  same,  no  doubt ;  few  new  clothes  had  been  bought 
during  the  war.  And  the  other — and  this  was  his 
own  dear  father — wore  a  buff  waistcoat,  high  white 
silk  scarf,  and  brown  frock  coat,  with  velvet  collar, 
Neither  of  them  were  every-day  sights  around  the 
corridors  of  the  New  York  Hotel:  even  among  a 
collection  of  human  oddities  representing  every  State 
in  the  South. 

"  We  thought  it  best  to  take  the  night  train,  my 
son,"  said  Richard,  starting  up  at  Oliver's  caressing 
touch — he  had  put  both  hands  on  his  father's  shoul 
ders.  "  You  got  your  dear  mother's  letter  of  course. 
Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you!  Sit  down  here  alongside 

of  us.    How  well  you  are  looking,  my  son,"  and  he 

405 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

patted  him  lovingly  on  the  arm.  "  What  a  whirl  it  all 
is!  t  Nathan  and  I  have  been  here  for  hours;  we  ar 
rived  at  six  o'clock.  Did  you  ever  see  anything  like 
it  ?  The  people  never  seem  to  stop  coming.  Ah !  this 
is  the  place  for  you,  my  boy.  Everything  is  so  alive, 
so  full  of  purpose,  so  intense,  so  delightful  and  in 
spiring  to  me.  And  such  a  change  in  the  years  since 
I  was  here." 

He  had  brought  the  motor  with  him.  It  lay  at  the 
moment  in  a  square  box  inside  the  office-railing.  Not 
the  big  one  which  he  had  just  perfected — that  one 
was  at  home  under  the  window  in  the  old  shop,  in  the 
back  yard  in  Kennedy  Square — but  a  smaller  work 
ing  model  made  of  pine  wood,  with  glass-tumblers 
for  jars  and  imitation  magnets  wrapped  round  with 
thread  instead  of  wire — the  whole  unintelligible  to 
the  layman,  but  perfectly  clear  to  the  scientist.  He 
had  with  him,  too,  packed  in  a  small  carpet-bag,  which 
lay  within  reach  of  his  hand,  all  the  patents  which  had 
been  granted  him  as  the  work  progressed — besides  a 
huge  bundle  of  papers,  such  as  legal  documents,  no 
tices  from  the  scientific  journals,  and  other  data  con 
nected  with  the  great  Horn  Galvanic  Motor,  which 
was  soon  to  revolutionize  the  motive  power  of  the 
world.  Tucked  away  in  his  inside  pocket,  ready  for 
instant  use,  was  Amos  Cobb's  letter,  introducing 
"  the  distinguished  inventor,  Mr.  Richard  Horn,  of 
Kennedy  Square,"  etc.,  etc.,  to  the  group  of  capital 
ists  who  were  impatiently  waiting  his  arrival,  and  who 


"MARGAKET   GRANT— TOP  FLOOR" 

were  to  furnish  the  unlimited  sums  of  money  neces* 
sary  in  its  development — unlimited  sums  being  ready 
for  any  scheme,  no  matter  how  chimerical,  in  the 
flush  times  through  which  the  country  was  then 
passing. 

"  I  have  succeeded  at  last,  my  boy,  as  I  wrote  you," 
continued  Richard,  with  glowing  eyes.  "  Even  that 
vsmall  motor  at  home — the  one  you  know — that  one 
has  a  lifting  power  of  a  hundred  pounds.  All  that  is 
necessary  now  is  to  increase  the  size  of  the  batteries 
and  the  final  result  is  assured.  Let  me  show  you 
this  — and,  oblivious  of  the  many  eyes  fastened  on 
him,  he  drew  toward  him  the  black  carpet-bag  and 
took  out  a  sheet  of  paper  covered  with  red  and  blue 
lines.  "  You  see  where  the  differences  are.  And  you 
see  here  " — and  he  pointed  out  the  details  with  his 
thin  white  finger — "  what  I  have  done  since  I  ex 
plained  to  you  the  new  additions.  This  drawing, 
when  carried  out,  will  result  in  a  motor  with  a  lifting 
capacity  of  ten  tons.  Ah,  Oliver,  I  cannot  tell  you 
what  a  great  relief  has  come  to  me  now  that  I  know 
my  life's  work  is  crowned  with  success." 

Nathan  was  quite  as  happy.  Richard  was  his  sun 
god.  When  the  light  of  hope  and  success  flashed  ii» 
the  inventor's  quiet,  thoughtful  face,  Nathan  basked 
in  its  warmth  and  was  radiant  in  its  glow.  He  needed 
all  the  warmth  he  could  get,  poor  old  man.  The  cold 
chill  of  the  days  of  fear  and  pain  and  sorrow  had  well- 
nigh  shrivelled  him  up;  he  showed  it  in  every  line 

407 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

of  his  body.  His  shoulders  were  much  more  bent: 
his  timid,  pipe-stem  legs  the  more  shaky ;  the  furrows 
about  his  face  deeper;  the  thin  nose  more  transparent. 
All  during  the  war  he  had  literally  lived  in  Richard. 
The  cry  of  the  "  extras  "  and  the  dull  tramp  of  march 
ing  troops,  and  the  rumbling  of  cars  laden  with  army 
supplies  had  jarred  on  his  sensitive  ear  as  would 
discordant  notes  in  a  quartette.  Days  at  a  time  he 
would  hide  himself  away  in  Richard's  workshop, 
helping  him  with  his  bellows  or  glue-pot,  or  piling  the 
coals  on  the  fire  of  his  forge.  The  war,  while  it  lasted, 
paralyzed  some  men  to  inaction — Nathan  was  one  of 
them. 

"  At  last,  Oliver,  at  last!  "  Nathan  whispered  to 
Oliver  when  Richard's  head  was  turned  for  a  moment. 
"  Nothing  now  but  plain  sailing.  Ah !  it's  a  great  day 
for  dear  Richard!  I  couldn't  sleep  last  night  on  the 
train  for  thinking  of  him." 

As  Oliver  looked  down  into  Nathan's  eyes,  glisten 
ing  with  hope  and  happiness,  he  wondered  whether, 
after  all  these  long  years  of  waiting,  his  father's 
genius  was  really  to  be  rewarded?  Was  it  the  same 
old  story  of  success — one  so  often  ending  in  defeat 
and  gloom,  he  thought,  or  had  the  problem  really  been 
solved?  He  knew  that  the  machine  had  stood  its 
initial  test  and  had  developed  a  certain  lifting  power; 
his  father's  word  assured  him  of  that;  but  would  it 
continue  to  develop  in  proportion  to  its  size? 

He  turned  again  toward  Richard.     The  dear  face 
468 


-'MARGARET  GRANT— TOP  FLOOR" 

was  a-light  with  a  new  certainty;  the  eyes  brilliant, 
the  smiles  about  the  lips  coining  and  going  like  sum 
mer  clouds  across  the  sun.  Such  enthusiasm  was  not 
to  be  resisted.  A  fresh  hope  rose  in  the  son's  heart. 
Could  this  now  almost  assured  success  of  his  father's 
help  him  with  Madge?  Would  their  long  waiting 
come  any  nearer  to  being  ended  ?  Would  the  sum  of 
money  realized  be  large  enough  to  pay  off  the  dreaded 
mortgage,  and  there  still  be  enough  for  the  dear  home 
•and  iif-  inmates? 

He  knew  how  large  this  hoped-for  sum  must  be, 
and  how  closely  his  own  and  his  mother's  honor  were 
involved  in  its  cancellation.  Her  letter  had  indeed 
stated  the  facts — this  motor  was  now  their  only  hope 
outside  the  work  of  his  own  brush. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  his  lucky  day  had  come.  The 
first  gleam  of  light  had  been  this  order  of  Peter  Fish's 
to  paint  his  daughter,  and  now  here,  sitting  beside 
him,  was  his  father  with  a  letter  in  his  pocket  ad 
dressed  to  Amos  Cobb  from  one  of  the  richest  men 
in  New  York,  who  stood  ready  to  pay  a  small  fortune 
for  the  motor.  Then  he  thought  of  his  mother. 
What  a  delight  it  would  be  when  she  could  be  freed 
from  the  millstone  that  had  hung  around  her  neck 
for  years. 

He  nmst  go  and  tell  Margaret  and  take  his  father 
and  Nathan  with  him.  Yes,  his  lucky  day  had  come. 

Soon  the  two  delighted  and  astonished  old  gentle 
men,  under  Oliver's  guidance,  were  making  their  way 

469 


up  Broadway  ostensibly  to  see  his  picture  at  Suede- 
cor's,  but  really  to  call  upon  the  distinguished  painter, 
Margaret  Grant,  whom  everyone  was  talking  about, 
both  in  ISTew  York  and  in  Kennedy  Square,  for  one 
of  her  pictures  graced  Miss  Clendenning's  boudoir  at 
that  very  moment.  Our  young  Romeo  had  waited 
too  many  months  for  someone  from  Kennedy  Square 
to  see  the  woman  he  loved,  and  now  that  the  arms  of 
his  father  and  Nathan  were  linked  in  his  own,  and 
their  legs  subject  to  his  orders,  he  did  not  intend  to 
let  many  precious  minutes  pass  before  he  rang  Mar 
garet's  studio  bell. 

When  Snedecor's  window  was  reached  Richard 
stopped  short  in  amazement. 

"  Yours,  Oliver !  Marvellous !  Marvellous !  " 
Richard  exclaimed,  when  the  three  had  wedged  their 
w?.^  into  the  crowd  to  see  the  better.  "  A  fine  strong 
picture,  and  a  most  superb  looking  woman.  Why,  I 
had  no  idea !  Really !  Really  "  — and  his  voice  trem 
bled.  He  was  deeply  touched.  The  strength  of  the 
coloring,  the  masterly  drawing,  the  admiring  crowd 
about  the  window,  greatly  surprised  him.  While  he 
had  been  closeted  with  his  invention,  thinking  only 
of  its  success  and  bending  every  energy  for  its  com 
pletion,  this  boy  of  his  had  become  a  master. 

"  I  didn't  do  my  full  duty  to  you,  my  son,"  he 
said,  with  a  tone  of  sadness  in  his  voice,  when  they 
had  resumed  their  walk  up  Broadway.  "  You  lost 

much  time  in  finding  your  life's  work.     I  should 

* 


"MARGARET   GRAXT— TOP  FLOOR" 

have  insisted  years  ago  that  you  follow  the  trend 
of  your  genius.  Your  dear  mother  was  not  will 
ing  and  I  let  it  go,  but  it  was  wrong.  From  some 
thing  she  said  to  me  the  other  night  I  feel  sure  she 
sees  her  mistake  now,  but  I  never  mention  it  to  her, 
and  do  you  never  let  her  know  I  told  yoUo  Yes !  You 
started  too  late  in  life,  my  boy." 

"  ]STo,  dear  old  daddy;  I  started  just  in  the  nick  of 
time  and  in  the  right  way." 

How  could  he  have  thought  anything  else  on  this 
lovely  spring  morning,  with  the  brightest  of  skies 
overhead,  his  first  important  order  within  his  grasp, 
his  dear  old  father  and  Nathan  beside  him,  and  the 
loveliest  girl  in  the  world  or  on  the  planets  beyond 
waiting  for  him  at  the  top  of  her  studio  stairs ! 

"  It's  most  kind  of  you  to  say  so,"  continued  Rich 
ard,  dodging  the  people  as  he  talked,  "  but  couldn't 
you  have  learned  to  work  by  following  your  own 
tastes?" 

"  Xo  dad.  I  was  too  confounded  lazy  and  too  fond 
of  fun.  And  then  the  dear  mother  wanted  me  to  go 
to  work,  and  that  was  always  enough  for  me." 

"  Oh,  my  son,  it  does  me  good  to  hear  you  say  so  " 
• — and  a  light  shone  on  the  old  gentleman's  face. 
"  Yes !  you  always  considered  your  mother.  You 
can't  think  how  she  has  suffered  during  these  terrible 
years.  But  for  the  good  offices  of  Mr.  Cobb  whose 
kindness  I  shall  never  forget,  I  do  not  see  how  she 
could  have  gone  through  them  as  she  has.  Isn't  it 


fine,  my  son,  to  think  it  is  all  over?  She  will  never 
have  to  worry  again — never — never.  The  motor 
will  end  all  her  troubles.  She  did  not  believe  in  it 
once,  but  she  does  now. 

They  continued  on  up  Broadway,  Oliver  in  the 
middle,  Richard's  arm  in  his ;  he  hurrying  them  both 
along;  steering  them  across  the  streets;  avoiding  the 
trucks  and  dragging  them  past  the  windows  they 
wanted  to  look  into,  with  promises  of  plenty  of  time 
for  that  to-morrow  or  next  week.  Only  once  did  he 
allow  them  to  catch  their  breath,  and  that  was  when 
they  passed  the  big  bronze  statue  overlooking  Union 
Square,  and  then  only  long  enough  for  the  two  to 
take  in  its  outlines  and  from  its  pedestal  to  fix  their 
eyes  on  the  little  windows  of  Miss  Teetum's  boarding- 
house,  where  he  had  spent  so  many  happy  and  un 
happy  days. 

Soon  the  two  breathless  old  gentlemen  and  equally 
breathless  young  guide — the  first  condition  due  to 
the  state  of  the  two  old  gentlemen's  lungs  and  the 
second  due  entirely  to  the  state  of  this  particular 
young  gentleman's  heart — stood  in  a  doorway  just 
off  Madison  Square,  before  a  small  bell-pull  bearing 
above  it  a  tiny  sign  reading:  "  Margaret  Grant.  Top 
Floor." 

"  Miss  Grant  has  been  at  home  only  a  few  months," 
Oliver  burst  out  as  he  rang  the  bell  and  climbed  the 
stairs.  "  Since  her  father's  death  she  has  been  in 

Paris  with  her  mother,  her  cousin,  Higbee  Shaw  the 

472 


"MARGARET  GRANT— TOP  FLOOR » 

sculptor,  and  her  brother  John.  A  shell  injured  the 
drum  of  John's  ear,  and  while  she  painted  he  was 
under  the  care  of  a  French  specialist.  He  is  still 
there  with  his  mother.  If  you  think  I  can  paint  just 
wait  until  you  see  Miss  Grant's  work.  Think,  dad!, 
she  has  taken  two  medals  in  Munich,  and  last  year 
had  honorable  mention  at  the  Salon.  You  remem 
ber  her  brother,  of  course,  don't  you,  Uncle  Nat,  the 
one  Malachi  hid  over  father's  shop  ?  " 

Uncle  Nat  nodded  his  head  as  he  toiled  up  the 
steps.  He  remembered  every  hour  of  the  hideous 
nightmare.  He  had  been  the  one  other  man  besides 
Richard  and  the  Chief  of  Police  to  shake  Oliver's 
hand  that  fatal  night  when  he  was  exiled  from  Ken 
nedy  Square. 

Mrs.  Mulligan,  in  white  apron,  a  French  cap  on 
her  head,  and  looking  as  fresh  and  clean  as  a  trained 
nurse,  opened  the  door.  Margaret  had  looked  her 
up  the  very  day  she  landed,  and  had  placed  her  in 
charge  of  her  apartment  as  cook,  housekeeper,  and 
lady's  maid,  with  full  control  of  the  front  door  and  of 
her  studio.  The  old  woman  was  not  hard  to  trace;  she 
had  followed  the  schools  of  the  academy  from  their 
old  quarters  to  the  new  marble  building  on  Twenty- 
third  Street,  and  was  again  posing  for  the  draped-lifcj 
class  and  occasionally  lending  a  hand  to  the  new  jan 
itor.  Margaret's  life  abroad  had  taught  her  the 
secret  of  living  alone,  a  problem  easily  solved  when 

there  are  Mrs.  Mulligans  to  be  had  for  the  asking. 

473 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Oliver,  she's  insoide.  Oh !  it's  f  ri'nda 
ye  hev  wid  ye !  "  and  she  started  back. 

"  Only  my  father  and  Mr.  Gill,"  and  he  brushed 
past  Mrs.  Mulligan,  parted  the  heavy  portieres  that 
divided  Madge's  working  studio  from  the  narrow  hall, 
thrust  in  his  head  and  called  out,  in  his  cheeriest 
voice : 

"  Madge,  who  do  you  think  is  outside  ?  Guess ! 
father  and  Uncle  Nat.  Just  arrived  this  morning." 

Before  Margaret  could  turn  her  head  the  two  stood 
before  her:  Richard  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  his 
brown  overcoat  with  the  velvet  collar  over  his  arm — 
he  had  slipped  it  off  outside — and  Nathan  close  be- 
Mnd,  still  in  the  long,  pen-wiper  cloak. 

"  And  is  it  really  the  distinguished  young  lady  of 
•whom  I  have  heard  so  much?  "  exclaimed  Richard 
with  his  most  courtly  bow,  taking  the  girl's  out- 
tetretched  hand  in  both  of  his.  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you,  my  dear,  both  on  your  own  account  and  on 
account  of  your  brother,  whom  we  once  sheltered. 
And  how  is  he  now?  and  your  dear  mother?  " 

To  all  of  which  Margaret  answered  in  low  gentle 
tones,  her  eyes  never  leaving  Richard's,  her  hand  still 
fast  in  his;  until  he  had  turned  to  introduce  Nathan 
so  that  he  might  pay  his  respects. 

Nathan,  in  his  timid  halting  way,  stepped  from 
behind  Richard,  and  taking  her  welcoming  hand, 
told  her  how  much  he  had  wanted  to  know  her, 

since  he  had  seen  the  picture  she  had  painted,  then 

474 


"MAKGAKET   GRAXT— TOP  FLOOR" 

hanging  in  Miss  Lavinia's  home;  both  because  it  waa 
the  work  of  a  woman  and  because  too — and  3ie 
looked  straight  into  her  eyes  when  he  said  it  and 
meant  every  word — she  was  the  sister  of  the  poor 
fellow  who  had  been  so  shamefully  treated  in  his 
owrn  city.  And  Margaret,  her  voice  breaking,  an 
swered  that,  but  for  the  aid  of  such  kind  friends  as 
himself  and  Oliver,  John  might  never  have  come 
back,  adding,  how  grateful  she  and  her  whole  family 
had  been  for  the  kindness  shown  her  brother. 

While  they  were  talking,  Richard,  wTith  a  slight 
bu^r  as  if  to  ask  her  permission,  began  making  the 
tour  of  the  room,  his  glasses  held  to  his  eyes,  examin 
ing  each  thing  about  him  with  the  air  of  a  connois 
seur  suddenly  ushered  into  a  new  collection  of  curios. 

"  Tell  me  who  this  sketch  is  by,"  he  asked,  stop 
ping  before  Margaret,  and  pointing  to  a  small  Lam- 
binet,  glowing  like  an  opal  on  the  dull-green  wall  of 
the  studio.  "  I  so  seldom  see  good  pictures  that  a  gem 
like  this  is  a  delight.  By  a  Frenchman!  Ah!  Yes,  I 
see  the  subtlety  of  coloring.  Marvellous  people, 
these  Frenchmen.  And  this  little  jewel  you  have 
here?  This  bit  of  mezzo  in  color.  "With  this  I  am 
more  familiar,  for  we  have  a  good  many  collections 
of  old  prints  at  home.  It  is,  I  think — yes — I  thought 
I  could  not  be  mistaken — it  is  a  Morland,"  and  he 
examined  it  closely,  his  nose  almost  touching  the 
glass. 

The  next  instant  he  had  crossed  the  room  to  the 
475 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

window  looking  out  over  the  city,  the  smoke  and 
steam  of  a  thousand  fires  floating  over  its  wide 
expanse. 

"  Come  here,  my  son,"  he  called  to  Oliver.  "  Look 
over  that  stretch  of  energy  and  brains.  Is  it  not  in 
spiring?  And  that  band  of  silver,  moving  so  quietly 
and  resistlessly  out  to  sea.  What  a  power  for  good  it 
all  is,  and  what  a  story  it  will  tell  before  the  century 
is  out." 

Margaret  was  by  his  side  as  he  spoke.  She  had 
hardly  taken  her  eyes  from  him  since  he  entered  the 
room — not  even  when  she  was  listening  to  Nathan. 
All  her  old-time  prejudices  and  preconceived  esti 
mates  of  Richard  were  slipping  away.  Was  this  the 
man  whom  she  used  to  think  of  as  a  dreamer  of 
dreams,  and  a  shiftless  Southerner?  This  charming 
old  gentleman  with  the  air  of  an  aristocrat  and  the 
keen  discernment  of  an  expert?  She  could  hardly 
believe  her  eyes. 

As  for  Oliver,  his  very  heart  was  bursting  with 
pride.  It  had  all  happened  exactly  as  he  had  wanted 
it — his  father  and  Margaret  had  liked  each  other 
from  the  very  first  moment.  And  then  she  had 
been  so  beautiful,  too,  even  in  her  long  painting- 
apron  and  her  hair  twisted  up  in  a  coil  on  her  head. 
And  the  little  blush  of  surprise  and  sweetness  which 
had  overspread  her  face  when  they  entered,  and 
which  his  father  must  have  seen,  and  the  inimitable 
grace  with  which  she  slipped  from  her  high  stool, 

476 


"MARGARET   GRANT— TOP  FLOOR" 

and  with  a  half  courtesy  held  out  her  hand  to  wel 
come  her  visitors,  and  all  with  the  savoir  faire  and 
charm  of  a  woman  of  the  world!  How  it  all  went 
straight  to  his  heart. 

If,  however,  he  had  ever  thought  her  pretty  in  this 
'working-costume,  he  thought  her  all  the  more  capti 
vating  a  few  minutes  later  in  the  little  French  jacket 
— all  pockets  and  buttons — which  she  had  put  on  as 
soon  as  the  greetings  were  over  and  the  tour  of  the 
room  had  been  made  in  answer  to  Richard's  delighted 
questions. 

±5ut  it  was  in  serving  the  luncheon,  which  Mrs. 
Mulligan  had  brought  in,  that  his  sweetheart  was 
most  enchanting.  Her  full-rounded  figure  moved  so 
gracefully  when  she  bent  across  to  hand  someone  a 
cup,  and  the  pose  of  the  head  was  so  delicious,  and  it 
was  all  so  bewitching,  and  so  precisely  satisfied  his 
artistic  sense.  And  he  so  loved  to  hear  her  talk 
when  she  was  the  centre  of  a  group  like  this,  as  much 
really  to  see  the  movement  of  her  lips  and  the  light 
in  her  eyes  and  the  gracious  way  in  which  she  moved 
her  head  as  to  hear  what  she  said. 

He  was  indeed  so  overflowing  with  happiness  over 
it  all,  and  she  was  so  enchanting  in  his  eyes  as  she 
sat  there  dispensing  the  comforts  of  the  silver  tray, 
that  he  must  needs  pop  out  of  the  room  with  some 
impromptu  excuse  and  disappear  into  the  little  den 
which  held  her  desk,  that  he  might  dash  off  a  note 
which  he  tucked  under  her  writing-pad — one  of  their 

477 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

hiding-places — and  which  bore  the  lines :  "  You  were 
never  so  much  my  queen  as  you  are  to-day,  dearest," 
and  which  she  found  later  and  covered  with  kisses 
before  he  was  half  way  down  the  block  on  his  way 
back  to  the  hotel  with  the  two  old  gentlemen. 

She  was  indeed  beautiful.  The  brow  was  wider 
and  whiter,  perhaps,  than  it  had  been  in  the  old  days 
under  the  bark  slant,  and  the  look  out  of  the  eyes  a 
trifle  softer,  and  with  a  certain  tenderness  in  them — 
not  quite  so  defiant  and  fearless ;  but  there  had  been 
no  other  changes.  Certainly  none  in  the  gold-brown 
hair  that  Oliver  so  loved.  That  was  still  her  glory, 
and  was  still  heaped  up  in  magnificent  masses,  and 
with  the  same  look  about  it  of  being  ready  to  burst 
its  bonds  and  flood  everything  with  a  river  of  gold. 

"  Lots  of  good  news  to-day,  Madge,"  Oliver  ex 
claimed,  after  they  had  all  taken  their  seats,  his  fa 
ther  on  Margaret's  right,  with  Nathan  next. 

"  Yes,  and  I  have  got  lots  of  good  news  too;  bush 
els  of  it,"  laughed  Margaret. 

"  You  tell  me  first,"  cried  Oliver  bending  toward 
her,  his  face  beaming;  each  day  they  exchanged  the 
minutest  occurrences  of  their  lives. 

"  No — Ollie — Let  me  hear  yours.  What's  it 
about?  Mine's  about  a  picture." 

"  So's  mine,"  exclaimed  Oliver,  his  eyes  brimming 
with  fun  and  the  joy  of  the  surprise  he  had  in  store 
for  her. 

"  But  it's  about  one  of  your  own  pictures,  Ollie." 
478 


"MARGARET   GRANT— TOP  FLOOR" 

"  So's  mine,"  he  cried  again,  his  voice  rising  in 
merriment. 

"  Oh,  Ollie,  tell  me  first,"  pleaded  Margaret  with  a 
tone  in  her  voice  of  such  coaxing  sweetness  that  only 
Richard's  and  Nathan's  presence  restrained  him  from 
catching  her  up  in  his  arms  and  kissing  her  then  and 
there. 

"  No,  not  until  you  have  told  me  yours,"  he 
answered  with  mock  firmness.  "  Mine  came  in  a 
letter." 

"  So  did  mine,"  cried  Margaret  clapping  her  hands. 
"I  don't  believe  yours  is  half  as  good  as  mine  and 
I'm  not  going  to  wait  to  hear  it.  Now  listen — "  and 
she  opened  an  envelope  that  lay  on  the  table  within 
reach  of  her  hand.  "  This  is  from  my  brother 
John—  "  and  she  turned  toward  Richard  and  Nathan. 
"  He  and  Couture,  in  whose  atelier  I  studied,  are 
great  friends.  Now  please  pay  attention  Mr.  Auto 
crat — "  and  she  looked  at  Oliver  over  the  edge  of  the 
letter  and  began  to  read — 

"  Couture  came  in  to-day  on  his  way  home  and  I  showed 
him  the  photograph  Ollie  sent  me  of  his  portrait  of  you— 
his  *  Tain-o'-Shanter  Girl '  he  calls  it.  Couture  was  so 
enthusiastic  about  it  that  he  wants  it  sent  to  Paris  at  once 
so  that  he  can  exhibit  it  in  his  own  studio  to  some  of  the 
painters  there.  Then  he  is  going  to  send  it  to  the  Salon. 
So  you  can  tell  that  *  Johnnie  Reb  *  to  pass  it  along  to  me 
by  the  first  steamer ;  and  you  can  tell  him,  too,  that  his 
last  letter  is  a  month  old,  and  I  am  getting  hungry  fof 
another." 

479 


THE  FOKTUNES  OF  OLIYEK  HOKN 

"  There  now!  what  do  you  think  of  that?  Mr. 
Honorable  Mention." 

Oliver  opened  his  eyes  in  astonishment. 

"  That's  just  like  John,  bless  his  heart!  "  he  an 
swered  slowly,  as  his  glance  sought  the  floor.     This 
last  drop  had  filled  his  cup  of  happiness  to  the  brim — •  • 
Some  of  it  was  glistening  on  his  lashes. 

"  Now  tell  me  your  good  news — "  she  continued, 
her  eyes  still  dancing.  She  had  seen  the  look  but  mis 
understood  the  cause. 

Oliver  raised  his  eyes — 

"  Oh,  it's  not  nearly  as  good  as  yours,  Madge,  in 
one  way  and  yet  in  another  it's  a  heap  better.  What 
do  you  think?  Old  Peter  Eish  wants  me  to  paint  his 
daughter's  portrait." 

Margaret  laid  her  hand  on  his. 

"Oh,  Oliver!  Not  Peter  Eish!  That's  the  best 
thing  that  has  happened  yet,"  and  her  face  instantly 
assumed  a  more  serious  expression.  "  I  know  the  girl 
—she  will  be  an  easy  subject;  she's  exactly  your 
type.  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Just  saw  John  Snedecor  in  answer  to  a  letter  he 
wrote  me.  Fish  has  bought  the  (  Woman  in  Black.' 
He's  delighted  with  it." 

"  Why,  I  thought/it  belonged  to  the  Countess." 

"  So  it  did.     She  sold  it." 

"Sold  it!" 

"  Yes.    Does  it  surprise  you  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  can't  say  that  it  does.    I  am  glad,  though* 
480 


"MARGARET   GRANT— TOP  FLOOR" 

that  it  will  stay  in  the  country.  It's  by  far  the  best 
thing  you  or  anybody  else  has  done  this  season.  I 
was  afraid  she  would  take  it  back  with  her.  Poor 
woman!  she  has  had  a  hard  life,  and  it  doesn't  seem 
to  get  any  better,  from  what  I  hear." 

"  You  know  the  original,  then,  my  dear? "  asked 
Richard,  holding  out  his  second  cup  of  tea  for  an 
other  lump  of  sugar,  which  Margaret  in  her  excite 
ment  had  forgotten.  He  and  Nathan  had  listened 
with  the  keenest  interest  to  the  reading  of  John 
Grant's  letter  and  to  the  discussion  that  had  fol 
lowed. 

"  I  know  of  her,"  answered  Margaret  as  she 
dropped  it  in ;  "  and  she  knows  me,  but  I've  never  met 
her.  She's  a  Pole,  and  something  of  a  painter,  too. 
She  studied  in  the  same  atelier  where  I  was,  but  that 
was  before  I  went  to  Paris.  Her  husband  became 
mixed  up  in  some  political  conspiracy  and  was  sent 
to  Siberia,  and  she  was  put  across  the  frontier  that 
same  night.  She  is  very  popular  in  Paris;  they  all 
like  her,  especially  the  painters.  There  is  nothing ' 
against  her  except  her  poverty."  There  could  be  no 
thing  against  any  woman  in  Margaret's  eyes.  "  But 
for  her  jewels  she  would  have  had  as  hard  a  time  to 
get  on  as  the  rest  of  us.  Now  and  then  she  parts  with 
one  of  her  pearls,  and  between  times  she  teaches 
music.  You  must  see  the  picture  Oliver  painted  of 
her — it  will  delight  you." 

"  Oh,   but  I  have !  "   exclaimed  Richard,   laying 

481 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

down  his  cup.  "  We  looked  at  it  as  we  came  up.  It 
is  really  a  great  picture.  He  tells  me  it  is  the  work 
of  two  hours  and  under  gas-light." 

"  No,  not  altogether,  father.  I  had  a  few  hours 
on  it  the  next  day,"  interrupted  Oliver. 

"  Strong,  isn't  it?  "  continued  Margaret,  without 
noticing  Oliver's  explanation.  "  It  is  really  better  in 
many  ways  than  the  girl  in  the  Tam-o'-Shanter  cap — 
the  one  he  painted  of  me.  That  had  some  of  Lely's 
qualities  about  it,  especially  in  the  flesh  tones.  He 
always  tells  me  the  inspiration  to  paint  it  came  from 
an  old  picture  belonging  to  his  uncle.  You  know  that 
of  course  ?  "  and  she  laid  a  thin  sandwich  on  Nathan's 
plate. 

"  You  mean  Tilghman's  Lely — the  one  in  his  house 
in  Kennedy  Square?  Oh,"  said  Richard,  lifting  his 
fingers  in  appreciation,  "  I  know  every  line  of  it.  It 
is  one  of  the  best  Lely's  I  ever  saw,  and  to  me  the  gem 
of  Tilghman's  collection." 

"Yes;  so  Ollie  tells  me,"  continued  Margaret. 
"  Now  this  picture  of  the  Countess  is  to  me  very  much 
more  in  Velasquez's  method  than  in  Lely's.  Broader 
and  stronger  and  with  a  surer  touch.  I  have  always 
told  Ollie  he  was  right  to  give  up  landscapes.  These 
two  pictures  show  it.  There  is  really,  Mr.  Horn,  no 
one  on  this  side  of  the  water  who  is  doing  exactly 
what  Oliver  is."  She  spoke  as  if  she  was  discussing 
Page,  Huntington  or  Elliott  or  any  other  painter  of 

the  day,  not  as  if  it  was  her  lover.    "  Did  you  notice 

4.S2 


"MARGARET   GRANT— TOP  FLOOR" 

how  the  lace  was  brushed  in  and  all  that  work  about 
the  throat — especially  the  shadow  tones?  " 

She  treated  Richard  precisely  as  if  he  was  one  of 
the  guild.  His  criticisms  of  her  own  work — for  he 
had  insisted  on  seeing  her  latest  picture  and  had  even 
been  more  enthusiastic  over  it  than  he  had  been  over 
Oliver's — and  his  instant  appreciation  of  the  Lam- 
binet,  convinced  her,  even  before  he  had  finished  the 
tour  of  the  room,  that  the  quaint  old  gentleman  was 
as  much  at  home  in  her  atmosphere  as  he  was  in  that 
of  his  shop  at  home  discussing  scientific  problems 
with  some  savant. 

"  I  did,  my  dear.  It  is  quite  as  you  say,"  answered 
Richard,  with  great  earnestness.  "  This  '  Woman  in 
Black,'  as  he  calls  it,  is  painted  not  only  with  sureness 
and  with  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  textures,  but 
it  seems  to  me  he  has  the  faculty  of  expressing  with 
each  stroke  of  his  brush,  as  an  engraver  does  with 
his  burin,  the  rounds  and  hollows  of  his  surfaces. 
And  to  think,  too,  my  dear,"  he  continued,  "  that 
most  of  it  was  done  at  night.  The  color  tones,  you, 
know " — and  his  manner  changed,  and  a  mom 
thoughtful  expression  came  into  his  face — the  scien 
tist  was  speaking  now — "  are  most  difficult  to  manage 
at  night.  The  colors  of  the  spectrum  undergo  some 
very  curious  changes  under  artificial  light,  especially 
from  a  gas  consuming  as  much  carbon  as  our  com 
mon  carburetted  hydrogen.  The  greens,  owing  to  the 
absorption  of  the  yellow  rays,  become  the  brighter, 

483 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

and  the  orange  and  red  tones,  from  the  same  reason, 
the  more  intense,  while  the  paler  violets  and,  in  fact, 
all  the  tertiaries,  of  a  bluish  cast  lose — 

He  stopped,  as  he  caught  a  puzzled  expression  on 
her  face.  "  Oh,  what  a  dreadful  person  I  am,"  he 
exclaimed,  rising  from  his  seat.  "  It  is  quite  inex 
cusable  in  me.  Please  forgive  me,  my  dear — I  was 
really  thinking  aloud.  Such  ponderous  learned 
words  should  be  kept  out  of  this  delightful  abode  of 
the  Muses,  and  then,  I  assure  you,  I  really  know  so 
little  about  it,  and  you  know  so  much."  And  he 
laughed  softly,  and  made  a  little  bow  as  a  further 
apology. 

"  No.  I  don't  know  one  thing  about  it,  nor  does 
any  other  painter  I  know,"  she  laughed,  blowing  out 
the  alcohol  lamp,  "  not  quite  in  the  same  way.  And 
if  I  did  I  should  want  you  to  come  every  day  and 
bring  Mr.  Gill  with  you  to  tell  me  about  it."  Where 
upon  Nathan,  replying  that  nothing  would  give  him 
more  pleasure  (he  had  been  silent  most  of  the  time — • 
somehow  no  one  expected  him  to  talk  much  when 
Richard  was  present),  struggled  to  his  feet  at  an 
almost  imperceptible  sign  from  the  inventor,  who 
suddenly  remembered  that  his  capitalists  were  wait 
ing  for  him,  pulled  his  old  cloak  about  his  shoulders 
and,  with  Richard  leading  the  way,  they  all  four 
moved  out  into  the  hall  and  stood  in  the  open 
doorway. 

When  they  reached  the  top  stair  outside  the  studio- 
484 


"MAKGAKET  GRANT— TOP  FLOOR" 

door  Richard  stopped,  took  both  of  Margaret's  hands 
in  his,  and  said,  in  his  kindest  voice  and  in  his  gravest 
and  most  thoughtful  manner,  as  he  looked  down  into 
her  face : 

"  My  dear  Miss  Grant,  may  I  tell  you  that  I  have 
to-day  found  in  you  the  realization  of  one  of  my  day 
dreams?  And  will  you  forgive  an  old  man  when  he 
says  how  proud  it  makes  him  to  know  a  woman  who 
is  brave  enough  to  live  the  life  you  do  ?  You  are  the 
forerunner  of  a  great  movement,  my  dear — the 
mother  of  a  new  guild.  It  is  a  grand  and  noble  thing 
for  a  woman  to  sustain  herself  with  work  that  she 
loves  " — and  the  dear  old  gentleman,  lifting  his  hat 
with  the  air  of  a  courtier,  betook  himself  down-stairs, 
followed  by  Nathan,  bowing  as  he  went. 

No  wonder  he  rejoiced!  Most  of  the  dreams  of  his 
younger  days  were  coming  true.  And  now  this  wom 
an — the  beginning  of  a  new  era — the  opening  out 
of  a  new  civilization.  And  ahead  of  it  a  National 
Art  that  the  world  would  one  day  recognize ! 

He  tried  to  express  his  delight  to  Oliver,  and 
turned  to  find  him,  but  Oliver  was  not  beside  him 
nor  did  he  join  his  father  for  five  minutes  at  least. 
That  young  gentleman — just  as  Richard  and  Nathan 
had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  second  flight  of  stairs — • 
had  suddenly  remembered  something  of  the  utmost 
importance  which  he  had  left  in  the  inner  room,  and 
which  he  could  not  possibly  find  until  Madge,  waiting 

by  the  banister,  had  gone  back  to  help  him  look  for 

485 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER 

it,  and  not  then,  until  Mrs.  Mulligan  had  left  them 
both  and  shut  the  kitchen-door  behind  her.  Yes,  it 
was  quite  five  minutes,  or  more,  before  Oliver  clat 
tered  down-stairs  after  his  guests,  stopping  but  once 
to  look  up  through  the  banisters  into  Margaret's 
eyes — she  was  leaning  over  for  the  purpose — his  open 
hand  held  up  toward  her  as  a  sign  that  it  was  always 
at  her  command. 


CHAPTEK    XXIII 

ME.    MUXSON'S    LOST    FOIL 


For  a  quiet,  orderly,  well  behaved  and  most  dig 
nified  street,  Tenth  Street,  at  seven  o'clock  one  April 
night  was  disgracing  itself  in  a  way  that  must  ha^e 
shocked  its  inhabitants.  Cabs  driving  like  mad  were 
raftling  over  the  cobbles,  making  their  way  toward 
Jie  old  Studio  Building.  Policemen  were  shouting 
a  the  drivers  to  keep  in  line.  Small  boys  were  dart 
ing  in  and  out,  peering  into  the  cab  windows  and 
calling  out  to  their  fellows :  "  Ki  Jimmy !  see  de  Ingin 
wid  de  fedder-duster  on  his  head  " — or,  "  Look  at 
de  pill  in  de  yaller  shirt !  My  eye,  ain't  he  a  honey- 
cooler!  " 

At  the  entrance  of  the  building,  just  inside  the  door 
where  the  crowd  was  thickest,  stood  two  men  in  armor  * 
with  visors  down — stood  so  still,  that  the  boys  and 
bystanders  thought  they  had  been  borrowed  from 
some  bric-a-brac  shop  until,  in  an  unguarded  moment, 
one  plumed  knight  rested  his  tired  leg  with  a  rattling 
noise  that  sounded  like  a  tin-peddler  shifting  his  pack 
or  the  adjustment  of  a  length  of  stovepipe.  Behind 
the  speechless  sentinels,  leading  into  the  narrow  cor 
ridor,  stretched  a  red  carpet  bordered  by  rows  of 

487 


palms  and  evergreens  and  hung  about  with  Chinese 
lanterns. 

At  the  end  of  this  carpet  opened  a  door  that 
looked  into  a  banquet  hall  as  rich  in  color  and  as 
sumptuous  in  its  interior  fittings  as  an  audience- 
chamber  of  the  Doges  at  a  time  when  Venice  ruled 
the  world.  The  walls  were  draped  with  Venetian  silks 
and  Spanish  velvets,  against  which  were  placed 
Moorish  plaques,  Dutch  brass  sconces  holding  clus 
ters  of  candles,  barbaric  spears,  bits  of  armor,  pairs 
of  fencing  foils,  old  cabinets,  and  low,  luxurious  div 
ans.  Thrust  up  into  the  skylight,  its  gaff  festooned 
with  trawl-nets,  drooped  a  huge  sloop's  sail,  its  grace 
ful  folds  breaking  the  square  lines  of  the  ceiling;  and 
all  about,  suspended  on  long  filigree  chains,  swung 
old  church-lamps  of  brass  or  silver,  burning  ruby 
tapers. 

In  the  centre  of  this  glow  of  color  stood  a  round 
table,  its  top  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  and  laid  with 
i -overs  for  fifty  guests.  On  this  were  placed,  in  or 
derly  confusion,  great  masses  of  flowers  heaped  up 
in  rare  porcelain  vases;  silver  candelabra  bearing 
lighted  candles;  old  Antwerp  brass  holding  bon-bon? 
and  sweets;  Venetian  flagons  filled  with  rare  wines; 
Chinese  and  Japanese  curios  doing  service  as  ash- 
Deceivers  and  match-safes;  Delft  platters  for  choice 
dishes;  besides  Flemish  mugs,  Bavarian  glasses, 
George  III.  silver,  and  the  like. 

At  the  head  of  this  sumptuous  board  was  placed  a 

488 


ME.  MIT:NTSO:NT'S  LOST  FOIL 

chair  of  state,  upholstered  in  red  velvet,  studded  with 
brass  rosettes,  the  corners  of  its  high  back  sur 
mounted  by  two  upright  gilt  ornaments.  This  was 
to  hold  the  Master  of  the  Feast,  the  presiding  officer 
who  was  to  govern  the  merry  spirits  during  the  hours 
of  the  revel.  In  front  of  this  royal  chair  was  a  huge 
stone  mug  crowned  with  laurel.  This  was  guarded 
by  two  ebony  figures,  armed  with  drawn  scimitars, 
which  stood  at  each  side  of  the  throne-seat.  From 
these  guards  of  honor  radiated  two  half-circles  of 
lesser  chairs,  one  for  each  guest — of  all  patterns  and 
periods:  old  Spanish  altar-seats  in  velvet,  Dutch 
chairs  in  leather,  Italian  chairs  in  mother-of-pearl  and 
ivory — all  armless  and  quite  low,  so  low  that  the  cos 
tumed  slaves,  who  were  to  wait  on  the  royal  assembly, 
?ould  serve  the  courses  without  having  to  reach  over 
the  backs  of  the  guests. 

Moving  about  the  room,  rearranging  the  curios 
on  the  cabinets,  adding  a  bit  of  porcelain  to  the  col 
lection  on  the  table,  shifting  the  lights  for  better 
effect,  lounging  on  the  wide  divans,  or  massed  about 
the  doorway  welcoming  the  new  arrivals  as  they 
entered,  were  Italian  nobles  of  the  sixteenth  and  sev 
enteenth  centuries,  costumed  with  every  detail  cor 
rect,  even  to  the  jewelled  daggers  that  hung  at  their 
sides,  all  genuine  and  of  the  period;  cardinals  in  red 
hats  and  wonderful  church  robes,  the  candle-grease 
of  the  altar  still  clinging  to  their  skirts;  Spanish 

grandees  in  velvet  and  brocade;  Indian  rajahs  in  bag« 

489 


gy  silk  trousers  and  embroidered  waistcoats,  with 
Kohinoors  flashing  from  their  turbans — not  genuine 
this  time  but  brilliant  all  the  same;  Shakespeares, 
Dantes  (one  of  each),  besides  courtiers,  nobles,  gal 
lants,  and  gentry  of  various  climes  and  periods. 

All  this  splendor  of  appointment,  all  these  shaded 
candles,  hanging-lamps,  Venetian  glass,  antique  fur 
niture,  rich  costumes,  Japanese  curios,  and  assorted 
bric-a-brac,  were  gathered  together  and  arranged  thus 
sumptuously  to  add  charm  and  lustre  to  a  banquet 
given  by  the  Stone  Mugs  to  those  of  their  friends 
most  distinguished  in  their  several  professions  of  art,, 
literature,  and  music. 

Indeed  any  banquet  the  Club  gave  was  sure  to  be 
as  unique  as  it  was  artistic. 

Sometimes  it  would  be  held  in  the  hold  of  an  aban 
doned  vessel  left  high  and  dry  on  a  lonely  beach, 
which,  under  the  deft  touches  of  the  artists  of  the 
Club,  would  be  transformed  in  a  night  to  the  cabin 
of  a  buccaneer  filled  with  the  loot  of  a  treasure  ship. 
Sometimes  a  canal  boat,  which  the  week  before  had 
been  loaded  with  lime  or  potatoes,  would  be  scoured 
out  with  a  fire-hose,  its  deck  roofed  with  awnings 
and  hung  with  lanterns,  ils  hatches  lined  with  palms, 
and  in  the  hold  below  a  table  spread  of  such  surpris 
ing  beauty,  and  in  an  interior  so  gorgeous  in  its  ap 
pointments  that  each  guest,  as  he  descended  the  car 
peted  staircase  leading  from  the  deck  above  to  the 

carpeted  keelson  below,  would  rub  his  eyes  wondering 

490 


MR.   MUlsrSOX'S   LOST   FOIL 

whether  he  had  not  been  asleep,  and  had  suddenly 
awakened  aboard  Cleopatra's  barge. 

Again  the  club  would  hold  a  Roman  feast  in  one 
of  Solari's  upstairs  rooms — the  successor  to  Riley's 
of  the  old  days — each  man  speaking  ancient  Latin 
with  Tenth  Street  terminals,  the  servants  dressed  in 
tunics  and  sandals,  and  the  members  in  togas.  Or 
they  would  make  a  descent  at  midnight  on  Fulton 
Market  and  have  their  tomcods  scooped  from  the  fish- 
boxes  alive  and  broiled  to  their  liking  while  they 
waited;  or  they  would  take  possession  of  Brown's  or 
Farrish's  for  mugs  of  ale  and  English  chops.  But  it 
was  always  one  so  different  from  any  other  function 
of  its  class  that  it  formed  the  topic  of  the  studios  for 
weeks  thereafter. 

To-night  it  was  the  humor  of  the  club  to  reproduce 
as  closely  as  possible,  with  the  limited  means  at  their 
disposal — for  none  of  the  Stone  Mugs  were  rolling 
in  wealth,  nor  did  these  functions  require  it — some 
one  of  the  great  banquets  of  former  times,  not  to  be 
historically  or  chronologically  correct,  but  to  express 
the  artistic  atmosphere  of  such  an  occasion. 

That  there  were  certain  unavoidable  and  easil/ 
detected  shams  under  all  this  glamour  of  color  and 
form  did  not  lessen  the  charm  of  the  present  function. 

Everybody,  of  course,  knew  before  the  evening  was 
over,  or  could  have  found  out  had  he  tried,  that  the 
two  knights  in  armor  who  guarded  the  side-walk  en 
trance  to  this  royal  chamber,  and  who  had  been  the 

491 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

target  of  the  street-rats  until  they  took  their  places 
at  the  inside  door,  were  respectively  Mr.  Patrick 
McGinnis,  who  tended  the  furnace  in  the  basement 
of  the  Tenth  Street  Studio  Building,  stripped  for  the 
occasion  down  to  his  red  flannels,  and  Signore  Luigi 
Bennelli,  his  Italian  assistant. 

A  closer  inspection  of  the  two  ebony  blackamoor^, 
with  drawn  scimitars,  who  guarded  the  royal  chair 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  would  have  revealed  the  fact 
that  they  were  not  made  of  ebony  at  all,  but  of  verit 
able  flesh  and  blood — the  blackamoor  on  the  righ* 
being  none  other  than  Black  Sam,  the  bootblack  who 
shined  shoes  on  the  corner  of  the  avenue,  and  his 
bloodthirsty  pal  on  the  left  the  kinky-haired  porter 
who  served  the  grocer  next  door;  the  only  "  honest  " 
thing  about  either  of  them,  to  quote  Waller,  being 
the  artistic  clothes  that  they  stood  in. 

Further  investigation  would  have  shown  that  every 
one  of  the  wonderful  things  that  made  glad  and  glori 
ous  the  big  square  room  on  the  ground  floor  of  the 
building,  from  the  brass  sconces  on  the  walls  to  the ' 
hanging  church  lamps,  with  everything  that  their 
lights  fell  upon,  had  been  gathered  up  that  same 
morning  from  the  several  homes  and  studios  of  the 
members  by  old  black  Jerry,  the  official  carman  of 
the  Academy,  and  had  been  dumped  in  an  indiscrim 
inate  heap  on  the  floor  of  the  banquet  hall,  where 
they  had  been  disentangled  and  arranged  by  half  a 

dozen  painters  of  the  club;  that  the  table  and  table- 

492 


ME.   MUNSON'S   LOST  FOIL 

cloth  had  been  borrowed  from  Solari's ;  that  the  very 
rare  and  fragrant  old  Chianti,  the  club's  private 
stock,  was  from  Solari's  own  cellars  via  Duncan's, 
the  grocer;  and  that  the  dinner  itself  was  cooked  and 
served  by  that  distinguished  bonif ace  himself,  assisted 
by  half  a  dozen  of  his  own  waiters,  each  one  wearing 
an  original  Malay  costume  selected  from  Stedman's 
collection  and  used  by  him  in  his  great  picture  of  the 
Sepoy  mutiny. 

Moreover  there  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  that 
the  "  Ingin,"  who  was  now  bowing  so  gravely  to  the 
niifster  of  ceremonies,  was  no  other  than  the  distin 
guished  Mr.  Thomas  Brandon  Waller,  himself; 
"  N.A.,  Knight  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  Pupil  of 
Piloty,  etc.,  etc. ;  "  that  the  high-class  mandarin  in 
the  sacred  yellow  robe  and  peacock  feather  who  ac 
companied  him,  was  Crug  the  'cellist;  that  the  bald- 
headed  gentleman  with  the  pointed  beard,  who  looked 
the  exact  presentment  of  the  divine  William,  was 
Munson ;  and  that  the  gay  young  gallant  in  the  Span 
ish  costume  was  none  other  than  our  Oliver.  The 
other  nobles,  cavaliers,  and  hidalgos  were  the  less 
known  members  of  the  club,  who,  in  their  desire  to 
make  the  occasion  a  success,  had  fitted  themselves  to 
their  costumes  instead  of  attempting  to  fit  the  cos 
tumes  to  themselves,  with  the  difference  that  each 
man  not  only  looked  the  character  he  assumed  but  as- 
eumed  the  character  he  looked. 

But  no  one,  even  the  most  knowing;  no  student 
493 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

of  costumes,  no  reader  of  faces,  no  discerner  of  char 
acter,  no  acute  observer  of  manners  and  times — in 
glancing  over  the  motley  company  would  have 
thought  for  one  instant  that,  in  all  this  atmosphere 
of  real  unrealism,  the  two  old  gentlemen  who  had  just 
entered  leaning  on  Oliver's  arm — one  in  a  brown  coat 
with  high  velvet  collar  and  fluffy  silk  scarf,  and  the 
other  in  a  long  pen-wiper  cloak  which,  at  the  moment 
was  slipping  from  his  shoulders — were  genuine  spec 
imens  of  the  period  of  to-day  without  a  touch  of  make 
up  about  them;  that  their  old-time  manners,  even  to 
the  quaint  bows  they  both  gave  the  master  of  cere- 
monies,  as  they  entered  the  royal  chamber,  were 
their  very  own,  part  of  their  daily  equipment,  and 
that  nothing  in  the  gorgeous  banquet  hall,  from 
the  jewelled  rapier  belted  to  Oliver's  side,  and  which 
had  once  graced  the  collection  of  a  prince,  down  to 
the  priceless  bit  of  satsuma  set  out  on  the  table  and 
now  stuffed  full  of  cigarettes  (the  bit  could  be  traced 
back  to  the  Ming  dynasty),  were  any  more  veritable 
or  genuine,  or  any  more  representative  of  the  best 
their  periods  afforded  than  these  two  quaint  old  gen 
tlemen  from  Kennedy  Square. 

Had  there  been  any  doubt  in  the  minds  of  any 
such  wiseacre,  either  regarding  their  authenticity 
or  their  quality,  he  had  only  to  listen  to  Oliver's  pres 
entation  of  his  father  and  friend  and  to  hear  Richard 
say,  in  his  most  courteous  manner  and  in  his  most 

winning  voice: 

494 


MR.   MUNSON'S   LOST   FOIL 

"  I  have  never  been  more  honored,  sir.  It  wag 
more  than  kind  of  you  to  wish  me  to  come.  My  only 
regret  is  that  I  am  not  your  age,  or  I  would  certainly 
have  appeared  in  a  costume  more  befitting  the  occa 
sion.  I  have  never  dreamed  of  so  beautiful  a  place/' 

Or  to  see  him  lift  his  hand  in  astonishment  as  he 
swept  his  eye  over  the  room,  his  arm  still  resting  on 
"the  velvet  sleeve  of  Oliver's  doublet,  and  hear  him 
add,  in  a  half  whisper: 

"  Wonderful!  Wonderful!  Such  harmony  of  color; 
such  an  exquisite  light.  I  am  amazed  at  the  splendor 
of  it  alL  What  Aladdin  among  you,  my  son,  held  the 
lamp  that  evoked  all  this  beauty?  " 

Or  still  more  convincing  would  it  have  been  had 
he  watched  him  moving  about  the  room,  shaking 
every  man's  hand  in  turn,  Oliver  mentioning  their 
real  names  and  their  several  qualifications,  and  after 
ward  the  characters  they  assumed,  and  Richard  com 
menting  on  each  profession  in  a  way  quite  his  own. 

"  A  musician,  sir,"  he  would  have  heard  him.  ex 
claim  as  he  grasped  Simmons's  hand,  over  which  hung 
a  fall  of  antique  lace ;  "  I  have  loved  music  all  my 
days.  It  is  an  additional  bond  between  us,  sir.  And 
the  costume  is  quite  in  keeping  with  your  art.  How 
delightful  it  would  be,  my  dear  sir,  if  we  could  dis 
card  forever  the  sombre  clothes  of  our  day  and  go 
back  to  the  velvets  and  silks  of  the  past." 

"Mr.  Stedman,  did  you  say,  my  son?"  and  he 
turned  to  Oliver.  "  You  have  certainly  men  cloned 

495 


this  gentleman's  name  to  me  before.  If  I  do  not  mis 
take,  lie  is  one  of  your  very  old  friends.  There  is 
no  need  of  your  telling  me  that  you  are  Lorenzo.  I 
can  quite  understand  now  why  Jessica  lost  her  heart." 

Or  to  see  him  turn  to  Jack  Bedford  with :  "  You 
don't  tell  me  so!  Mr.  John  Bedford,  did  you  say, 
Oliver?  Ah;  but  we  should  not  be  strangers,  sir.  If 
I  am  right,  you  are  a  fellow-townsman  of  ours,  and 
have  already  distinguished  yourself  in  your  profes 
sion.  Your  costume  is  especially  becoming  to  you, 
sir.  What  discernment  you  have  shown.  Permit  me 
to  say,  that  with  you  the  old  adage  must  be  reversed 
— this  time  the  man  makes  the  clothes." 

The  same  adage  could  really  have  been  applied  to 
this  old  gentleman's  own  dress,  had  he  but  only 
known  it.  He  had  not  altered  it  in  twenty  years, 
even  after  it  had  become  a  matter  of  comment  among 
his  neighbors  in  Kennedy  Square. 

"  I  always  associate  one's  clothes  with  one's  man* 
'flers,"  he  would  say,  with  a  smile.  "  If  they  are  good, 
and  suited  to  the  occasion,  best  not  change  them." 
Nathan  was  of  the  same  mind.  The  wide  hat,  long, 
evenly  parted  hair,  and  pen-wiper  cloak  could  be 
traced  to  these  same  old-fashioned  ideas.  These 
idiosyncrasies  excited  no  comment  so  far  as  Nathan 
was  concerned.  He  was  always  looked  upon  as  be 
longing  to  some  antediluvian  period,  but  with  a  pro 
gressive  man  like  Richard  the  case,  his  neighbors 

thought,  might  have  been  different. 

496 


MR.   MUXSON'S  LOST   FOIL 

As  Richard  moved  about  the  room,  saluting  each 
•one  in  turn,  the  men  in  and  out  of  costume — the 
guests  were  in  evening  dress — looked  at  each  other 
and  smiled  at  the  old  gentleman's  quaint  ways,  but 
the  old  gentleman,  with  the  same  ease  of  manner  and 
speech,  continued  on  quite  around  the  table,  followed 
closely  by  Nathan,  who  limited  his  salutations  to  a 
timid  shake  of  the  fingers  and  the  leaving  of  some 
word  of  praise  or  quaint  greeting,  which  many  of 
them  remember  even  to  this  day. 

These  introductions  over — Oliver  had  arrived  on 
the  minute — the  ceremony  of  seating  the  guests  was 
at  once  begun.  This  ceremony  was  one  of  great  dig 
nity,  the  two  men-at-arms  escorting  the  Master  of  the 
Feast,  the  Most  High  Pan-Jam,  Frederico  Stono, 
N.A.,  to  his  Royal  Chair,  guarded  by  the  immovable 
blackamoors,  the  members  and  guests  standing  until 
His  Royal  Highness  had  taken  his  seat,  and  then 
dropping  into  their  own.  When  everyone  was  in  his 
place  Richard  found  himself,  to  his  delight,  on  the 
right  of  Fred  and  next  to  Nathan  and  Oliver — an 
honor  accorded  to  him  because  of  his  age  and  rela 
tionship  to  one  of  the  most  popular  members  of  the 
club,  and  not  because  of  his  genius  and  attainments 
— these  latter  attributes  being  as  yet  unknown  quan 
tities  in  that  atmosphere.  The  two  thus  seated  to 
gether  under  the  especial  care  of  Oliver — a  fact 
which  relieved  the  master  of  ceremonies  of  any  fur 
ther  anxiety  on  their  account — were  to  a  certain 

497 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

extent  left  to  themselves,  the  table  being  too  large 
for  general  conversation  except  with  one's  neighbors. 

The  seat  in  which  he  had  been  placed  exactly  suited 
Richard's  frame  of  mind.  With  an  occasional  word 
to  Fred,  he  sat  quite  still,  talking  now  and  then  in  low 
tones  to  Nathan,  his  eyes  taking  in  every  detail  of 
the  strange  scene. 

While  Nathan  saw  only  the  color  and  beauty  of  it 
all,  Richard's  keener  mind  was  analyzing  the  causes 
that  had  led  up  to  such  a  gathering,  and  the  skill  and 
taste  with  which  the  banquet  had  been  carried  out. 
He  felt  assured  that  the  men  who  could  idle  so  lux 
uriously,  and  whose  technical  knowledge  had  per 
fected  the  artistic  effects  about  him,  could  also  work 
at  their  several  professions  with  equal  results.  He 
was  glad  that  Oliver  had  been  found  worthy  enough 
to  be  admitted  to  such  a  circle.  He  loved,  too,  to  hear 
his  son's  voice  and  watch  the  impression  his  words 
made  on  the  room.  As  the  evening  wore  on,  and  he 
listened  to  his  banter,  or  caught  the  point  of  the 
jests  that  Oliver  parried  and  heard  his  merry  laugh, 
he  would  slip  his  hand  under  the  table  and  pat  his 
boy's  knee  with  loving  taps  of  admiration,  prouder  of 
him  than  ever.  His  own  pleasures  so  absorbed  him 
that  he  continued  to  sit  almost  silent,  except  for  a 
word  now  and  then  to  Nathan  or  a  monosyllable  to 
Fred. 

The  guests  who  were  near  enough  to  observe  the 

visitors  closely  soon  began  to  look  upon  Richard  and 

498 


MR   MUNSON'S   LOST   FOIL 

Nathan  as  a  couple  of  quaint,  harmless,  exceedingly 
well-bred  old  gentlemen,  rather  provincial  in  appear 
ance  and  a  little  stilted  in  their  manners,  who,  before 
the  evening  was  over,  would,  perhaps,  become  tired 
of  the  gayety,  ask  to  be  excused,  and  betake  them 
selves  to  bed.  All  of  which  would  be  an  eminently 
proper  proceeding  in  view  of  their  extreme  age  and 
general  infirmities,  old  gentlemen  of  three  score 
years  and  over  appearing  more  or  less  decrepit  to 
athletes  of  twenty  and  five. 

Waller  was  the  only  man  who  really  seemed  to 
take  either  of  them  seriously.  After  a  critical  ex 
amination  of  Richard's  head  in  clear  relief  under 
the  soft  light  of  the  candles,  he  leaned  over  to  Sted- 
man  and  said,  in  a  half  whisper,  nodding  toward 
Richard: 

"  Stedman,  old  man,  take  that  in  for  a  minute. 
Strong,  isn't  it?  Wouldn't  you  like  to  paint  him  as 
a  blessed  old  Cardinal  in  a  red  gown?  See  how  fine 
the  nose  is,  and  the  forehead.  Best  head  I've  seen 
anywhere.  Something  in  that  old  fellow." 

The  dinner  went  on.  The  Malays  in  scarlet  and 
yellow  served  the  dishes  and  poured  the  wine  with 
noiseless  regularity.  The  men  at  arms  at  each  sida 
of  the  door  rested  their  legs.  The  two  blackamoors, 
guarding  the  High  Pan-Jan?'s  chair,  and  who  had 
been  promised  double  pay  if  they  kept  still  during 
the  entire  evening,  had  not  so  far  winked  an  eyelid. 

and  then  a  burst  of  laughter  would  start  from 
499 


one  end  of  the  table,  leap  from  chair  to  chair,  and 
end  in  a  deafening  roar  in  which  the  whole  room 
joined.  Each  man  was  at  his  best.  Fred,  with  en 
tire  gravity,  and  with  his  sternest  and  most  High 
Pan-Jam  expression,  told,  just  after  the  fish  was 
served,  a  story  of  a  negro  cook  at  a  camp  so  true  to 
life  and  in  so  perfect  a  dialect  that  the  right-hand 
blackamoor  doubled  himself  up  like  a  jack-knife, 
much  to  the  astonishment  of  those  on  the  far  side  of 
the  big  round  table,  who  up  to  that  moment  had 
firmly  believed  them  to  be  studio  properties  with 
ebony  heads  screwed  on  bodies  of  iron  wire,  the 
whole  stuffed  with  curled  hair.  Bianchi,  who  had 
come  in  late,  clothed  in  a  Burgomaster's  costume 
and  the  identical  ruff  that  Oliver  had  expected  to 
paint  him  in  the  night  when  the  Countess  took  his 
place,  was  called  to  account  for  piecing  out  his  dress 
with  a  pair  of  breeches  a  century  behind  his  coat 
and  hat,  and  had  his  voice  drowned  in  a  roar  of  pro 
tests  before  he  could  explain. 

Batterson,  the  big  baritone  of  the  club,  Batterson 
with  the  resonant  voice,  surpassed  all  his  former 
efforts  by  singing,  when  the  cheese  and  salads  were 
served,  a  Bedouin  love-song,  with  such  power  and 
pathos  and  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  native  in 
strument  so  skilfully  handled  that  the  room  rose  to 
its  feet,  waving  napkins,  and  the  great  Carvalho,  the 
famous  tenor — a  guest  of  C  rug's,  each  member  could 
invite  one  guest — who  was  singing  that  week  at  the 

600 


ME.   MUNSON'S  LOST  FOIL 

Academy  of  Music,  left  his  seat  and,  circling  the 
table,  threw  his  arms  about  the  singer  in  undisguised 
admiration. 

When  the  cigars  and  liqueurs  had  been  pass&d 
around — these  last  were  poured  from  bubble-blown 
decanters  and  drunk  from  the  little  cups  flecked  with 
gold  that  Munson  had  found  in  an  old  shop  in  Ra- 
,venna — the  chairs  were  wheeled  about  or  pushed 
back,  and  the  members  and  guests  rose  from  the  table 
and  drifted  to  the  divans  lining  the  walls,  or  threw 
themselves  into  the  easy-chairs  that  were  being 
broifght  from  the  corners  by  the  waiters.  The 
piano,  with  the  assistance  of  the  two  now  crest 
fallen  and  disappointed  blackamoors,  who,  Eury- 
dice  like,  had  listened  and  lost,  was  pushed  from 
its  place  against  the  wall;  Crug's  'cello  was  stripped 
of  its  green  baize  bag  and  Simmons's  violin-case 
opened  and  his  Stradivarius  placed  beside  it.  The  big 
table,  bearing  the  wreck  of  the  feast,  more  captivat 
ing  even  in  its  delightful  disorder  than  it  had  been  in 
its  orderly  confusion,  was  then,  with  the  combined 
help  of  all  the  Malays,  moved  gently  back  against 
the  wall,  so  as  to  widen  the  space  around  the  piano, 
its  debris  left  undisturbed  by  special  orders  from  the 
Royal  Chair,  the  rattling  of  dishes  while  their  fun 
was  in  progress  being  one  of  the  things  which  the 
club  would  not  tolerate. 

While  all  this  rearranging  of  the  banquet-hall  was 

going  on,  Simmons  was  busying  himself  putting  a 

501  ' 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

new  bridge  under  the  strings  of  his  violin,  tighten 
ing  its  bow,  and  testing  the  condition  of  his  instru 
ment  by  that  see-saw,  harum-scarum  nourish  so  com 
mon  to  all  virtuosos; — no  function  of  the  club  was 
ever  complete  without  music — the  men  meanwhile 
settled  themselves  comfortably  in  their  seats;  some 
occupying  their  old  chairs,  others  taking  possession 
of  the  divans,  the  gay  costumes  of  the  members,  and 
the  black  coats  and  white  shirt-fronts  of  the  guests  in 
high  relief  against  the  wrecked  dinner-table  present 
ing  a  picture  as  rich  in  color  as  it  was  strong  in 
contrast. 

What  is  so  significant,  by  th«  way,  or  so  pictu 
resque,  as  a  dinner-table  wrecked  by  good  cheer  and 
hospitality?  The  stranded,  crumpled  napkins,  the 
bunching  together  of  half  and  wholly  emptied  glasses, 
each  one  marking  a  period  of  content — the  low 
candles,  with  half  dried  tears  still  streaming  down 
their  cheeks  (tears  of  laughter,  of  course) ;  the  charm 
ing  disorder  of  cups  on  plates  and  the  piling  up  of 
dishes  one  on  the  other — all  such  a  protest  against 
the  formality  of  the  beginning !  and  all  so  suggestive 
of  the  lavish  kindness  of  the  host.  A  wonderful 
object-lesson  is  a  wrecked  dinner-table,  if  one  cares 
to  study  it. 

Silence  now  fell  upon  the  room,  the  slightest  noise 
when  Simmons  played  being  an  unpardonable  sin. 
The  waiters  were  ordered  either  to  become  part  of 

ihe  wall  decoration  or  to  betake  themselves  to  the 

502 


MR.  MUNSON'S  LOST  FOIL 

outside  hall,  or  the  infernal  regions,  a  suggestion  of 
Waller's  when  one  of  them  rattled  some  glasses  he 
was  carrying  on  a  tray. 

Simmons  tucked  a  handkerchief  in  the  "band  of  his 
collar,  balanced  his  bow  for  an  instant,  looked  around 
the  room,  and  asked,  in  a  modest,  obliging  way: 

"  What  shall  it  be,  fellows?  " 

"  Better  give  us  Bach.  The  aria  on  the  G  strings," 
answered  Waller. 

"  No,  Chopin,"  cried  Fred. 

"  No,  you  wooden-head,  Bach's  aria,"  whispered 
Waller.  "  Don't  you  know  that  is  the  best  thing  he 
does?" 

"  Bach  it  is  then,"  answered  Simmons,  tucking  his 
instrument  under  his  chin. 

As  the  music  filled  the  room,  Richard  settled  him 
self  on  one  of  the  large  divans  between  Nathan  and 
Oliver,  his  head  lying  back  on  the  cushions,  his  eyes 
half  closed.  If  the  table  with  its  circle  of  thoughtful 
and  merry  faces,  had  set  his  brain  to  work,  the  tones 
of  Simmons's  violin  had  now  stirred  his  very  soul. 
Music  was  the  one  thing  in  the  world  he  could  not 
resist. 

He  had  never  heard  the  aria  better  played.  He 
had  no  idea  that  anyone  since  Ole  Bull's  time  could 
play  it  so  well.  Really,  the  surprises  of  this  wonder 
ful  city  were  becoming  greater  to  him  every  hour. 
Nathan,  too,  had  caught  the  infection  as  he  sat  with 
his  body  bent  forward,  his  head  on  one  side  listening 
i-ntentlv. 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

When  the  last  note  of  Simmons's  violin  had  ceased 
vibrating,  Richard  sprang  to  his  feet  with  all  the 
buoyancy  of  a  boy  and  grasped  the  musician  by  the 
hand. 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  really  astound  me!  Your  tone 
is  most  exquisite,  and  I  must  also  thank  you  for  the 
rendering.  It  is  one  quite  new  to  me.  Ole  Bull 
played  it,  you  remember — excuse  me,"  and  he  picked 
up  Simmons's  violin  where  he  had  laid  it  on  the  piano, 
tucked  it  under  his  chin,  and  there  vibrated  through 
the  room,  half  a  dozen  quivering  notes,  so  clear  and 
sweet  that  all  eyes  were  instantly  directed  toward  the 
quaint  old  gentleman,  who  still  stood  with  uplifted 
bow,  the  violin  in  his  hand. 

"  "Where  the  devil  did  he  learn  to  play  like  that?  " 
said  one  member  to  another.  "  Why  I  thought  he 
was  an  inventor." 

"  Keep  your  toes  in  your  pumps,  gentlemen,"  said 
Waller  under  his  breath  to  some  men  beside  him,  as 
he  sat  hunched  up  in  the  depths  of  an  old  Spanish 
armchair.  He  had  not  taken  his  eyes  from  Richard 
while  the  music  went  on.  "  We're  not  half  through 
with  this  old  fellow.  One  thing  I've  found  out,  any 
how — that's  where  this  beggar  Horn  got  his  voice." 

Simmons  was  not  so  astounded;  if  he  were  he  did 
not  show  it.  He  had  recognized  the  touch  of  a  musi 
cian  in  the  very  first  note  that  came  from  the  strings, 
just  as  the  painters  of  the  club  had  recognized  the 

artist  ID  the  first  line  of  the  Countess's  brush. 

504 


MR  MUXSOX'S  LOST  FOIL 

"  Yes,  you're  right,  Mr.  Horn,"  said  Simmons,  aa 
Richard  returned  him  the  instrument.  "  Now  I 
come  to  think  of  it,  I  do  remember  having  heard  Ole 
Bull  phrase  it  in  that  way  you  have.  Stop  a  moment; 
take  my  violin  again  and  play  the  air.  There's  an 
other  instrument  here  which  I  can  use.  I  brought  it 
for  one  of  my  orchestra,  but  he  has  not  turned  up 
yet,"  and  he  opened  a  cabinet  behind  him  and  took 
out  a  violin  and  bow. 

Richard  laughed  as  he  again  picked  up  Simmons's 
instrument  from  tKe  piano  where  he  had  laid  it. 

"  What  an  extraordinary  place  this  is,"  he  said  as 
he  adjusted  the  maestro's  violin  to  his  chin.  "  It  fills 
me  with  wonder.  Everything  you  want  seems  to  be 
within  reach  of  your  hand.  You  take  a  bare  room 
and  transform  it  into  a  dream  of  beauty;  you  touch 
a  spring  in  a  sixteenth  century  cabinet,  and  out  comes 
a  violin.  Marvellous !  Marvellous !  "  and  he  sounded 
the  strings  with  his  bow.  "  And  a  wonderful  instru 
ment  too,"  he  continued,  as  he  tightened  one  of  its 
strings,  his  acute  ear  having  detected  a  slight  inac 
curacy  of  pitch. 

"  I'm  all  ready,  Mr.  Simmons ;  now,  if  you  please." 

If  the  club  and  its  guests  had  forgotten  the  old 
gentleman  an  hour  before,  the  old  gentleman  had  now 
quite  forgotten  them. 

He  played  simply  and  easily,  Simmons  joining  in, 
picking  out  the  accompaniment,  entirely  unaware 
that  anybody  was  listening,  as  unaware  as  he  would 

509 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

have  been  had  only  the  white-haired  mistress  been 
present,  and  perhaps  llalachi  stepping  noiselessly  in 
and  out.  When  he  ceased,  and  the  audience  had 
broken  out  into  exclamations  of  delight,  he  looked 
about  him  as  if  surprised,  and  then,  suddenly  remem 
bering  the  cause  of  it  all,  said,  in  a  low,  gentle  voice, 
and  with  a  pleasant  smile :  "  I  don't  wonder  you're 
delighted,  gentlemen.  It  is  to  me  the  most  divine  of 
all  his  creations.  There  is  only  one  Bach."  That  his 
hand  had  held  the  bow  and  that  the  merit  of  its  ex 
pression  lay  with  him,  never  seemed  to  have  entered 
his  head. 

"WTien  the  applause  had  died  out,  and  Oliver  with 
the  others  had  crowded  around  his  father  to  congrat 
ulate  him,  the  young  fellow's  eyes  fell  upon  Xathan, 
who  was  still  sitting  on  the  long  divan,  his  head  rest 
ing  against  the  wall,  his  trembling  legs  crossed  one 
over  the  other,  the  thin  hands  in  his  lap — Richard's 
skill  was  a  never-ending  delight  to  ISTathan,  and  he 
had  not  lost  a  note  that  his  bow  had  called  out.  The 
flute-player  had  kept  so  quiet  since  the  music  had  be 
gun,  and  had  become  so  much  a  part  of  the  decora 
tions — like  one  of  the  old  chairs  with  its  arms  held 
out,  or  a  white-faced  bust  staring  from  out  a  dark 
corner,  or  some  portrait  that  looked  down  from  the 
tapestries  and  held  its  peace — that  almost  everyone 
had  forgotten  his  presence. 

The  attitude  oi  the  old  man — always  a  pathetic 
one,  brought  back  to  Oliver's  mind  some  memory 


MR.   MUXSOX'S   LOST   FOIL 

from  out  his  boyhood  days.  Suddenly  a  forgotten 
strain  from  Xathan's  flute  floated  through  his  brain, 
some  strain  that  had  vibrated  through  the  old  rooms 
in  Kennedy  Square.  Springing  to  his  feet  and  tip 
toeing  to  the  door,  he  passed  between  the  two  men 
in  armor — rather  tired  knights  by  this  time,  but  still/ 
on  duty — ran  down  the  carpeted  hall  between  the 
lines  of  palms  and  up  one  flight  of  stairs.  Then  came 
a  series  of  low  knocks.  A  few  minutes  later  he 
bounded  in  again,  his  rapier  in  his  hand  to  give  his 
legs  freer  play. 

'H[  rapped  up  Mitchell,  who's  sick  in  his  studio 
upstairs,  and  got  his  flute,"  he  whispered  to  Waller. 
"  If  you  think  my  father  can  play  you  should  hear 
Uncle  Xat  Gill,"  and  he  walked  toward  Xathan,  the 
flute  held  out  toward  him. 

The  old  gentleman  woke  to  consciousness  at  the 
sight  of  the  instrument,  and  a  slight  flush  overspread 
his  face. 

"  Oh,  Oliver!  Really,  gentlemen — I — of  course,  ' 
love  the  instrument,  but  here  among  you  all — "  and 
he  looked  up  in  a  helpless  way. 

"  Xo,  no,  Uncle  ]STat,"  cried  Oliver,  pressing  the 
flute  into  Xathan's  hand.  "  We  won't  take  any  ex 
cuse.  There  is  no  one  in  my  town,  gentlemen,"  and 
he  faced  the  others,  "  who  can  play  as  he  does. 
Please,  Uncle  Xat — just  for  me;  it's  so  long  since  I 
heard  you  play,"  and  he  caught  hold  of  Xathan's  arm 

to  lift  him  to  his  feet. 

507 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  You  are  quite  right,  my  son,"  cried  Richard, 
"  and  I  will  play  his  accompaniment." 

Oliver's  announcement  and  Richard's  endorse 
ment  caused  a  stir  as  great  as  Richard's  own  per 
formance.  A  certain  curiosity  took  possession  of 
the  room,  quite  distinct  from  the  spirit  of  merri 
ment  which  had  characterized  it  before.  Many 
of  the  men  now  left  their  seats  and  began  crowding 
about  the  piano — red  cardinals,  cavaliers,  nobles, 
and  black-coated  guests  looking  over  each  other's 
shoulders.  Everybody  was  getting  more  and  more 
mystified. 

"  Really,  Fred,"  whispered  "Waller,  who  still  sat 
quietly  watching  the  two  visitors — he  had  not  taken 
his  eyes  from  them  since  Richard  in  his  enthusiasm 
sprang  forward  to  grasp  Simmons's  hand — "  this  is 
the  most  ridiculous  thing  I  ever  saw  in  my  life. 
First  comes  this  fossil  thoroughbred  who  outplays 
Simmons,  and  now  comes  this  old  nut-cracker  with 
his  white  tow-hair  sticking  out  in  two  straight  mops, 
who  is  going  to  play  the  flute!  What  in  thunder  is 
coming  next  ?  Pretty  soon  one  of  them  will  be  pull 
ing  rabbits  out  of  somebody's  ears,  or  rubbing  gold 
watches  into  canary  birds." 

Nathan  took  the  flute  from  Oliver's  outstretched 
hand,  bowed  in  a  timid  way  like  a  school-boy  about 
to  speak  a  piece,  turned  it  over  carefully,  tried  the 
silver  keys  to  see  that  they  responded  easily  to  the 

pressure  of  his  fingers,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.    Rich- 

508 


ME.  HUDSON'S  LOST   FOIL 

ard  picked  up  the  violin  and  whispered  to  Munson, 
with  whon?  he  had  been  talking — the  one  member 
who  could  play  the  piano  as  well  as  he  could  paint  or 
fence — who  nodded  his  head  in  assent. 

Then,  with  Richard  leading,  the  four — one  of  the 
..nests  a  'cellist  of  distinction  took  Max  Unger's 
place — began  Max's  arrangement  of  the  overture  to 
"  Fidelio  ";  the  one  Richard  and  Xathan  had  played 
so  often  together  in  the  old  parlor  in  Kennedy 
Square,  with  Miss  Clendenning  and  linger:  an  ar 
rangement  which  had  now  become  known  to  most 
mufical  amateurs. 

There  is  not  a  man  yet  alive  who  has  forgotten  the 
tones  of  Xathan's  flute  as  they  soared  that  night 
through  the  clouds  of  tobacco-smoke  that  filled  the 
great  banquet-hall.  Every  shade  and  gradation  of 
tone  was  a  delight.  3Tow  soft  as  the  cooing  of  doves, 
now  low  as  the  music  of  a  brook  rippling  over  the 
shallows  and  again  swelling  into  song  like  a  chorus 
of  birds  rejoicing  in  the  coming  of  spring. 

Kot  until  the  voice  in  the  slender  instrument  had 
become  silent  and  the  last  note  of  Richard's  bow 
had  ceased  reverberating — not,  in  fact,  until  both 
men  had  laid  do\vn  their  instruments,  and  had  turned 
from  the  piano — did  the  room  seem  to  recover  from 
the  spell  that  had  bound  it.  Even  then  there  was  no 
applause;  no  clapping  of  hands  nor  stamping  of  feet. 
There  followed,  from  members  and  guests  alike,  only 

a  deep,  pent-up  sigh  and  a  long  breath  of  relief,  as  if 

509 


THE  FOETUSES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

from  a  strain  unbearable.  Simmons,  who  had  sat 
with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  gave  no  other  sign 
of  his  approval  than  by  rising  from  his  chair,  taking 
Nathan's  thin  hand  in  his  own  and  grasping  it  tightly, 
without  a  word.  Stedman  blurted  out,  in  a  low  voice 
to  himself:  "My  God!  Who  ever  heard  anything 
like  that?"  and  remained  fixed  to  his  seat.  As  for 
Richard  and  Nathan,  they  resumed  their  places  on 
the  divan  as  men  who  had  read  a  message  not  their 
own  to  willing  ears. 

Another,  and  quite  a  different  mood  now  took  pos 
session  of  the  room.  Somehow  the  mellow  tones  of 
Nathan's  flute  had  silenced  the  spirit  of  the  rollicking 
buffoonery  which  had  pervaded  the  evening. 

The  black-coated  guests,  with  superlative  praise  of 
the  good  time  they  had  had,  and  with  renewed  thanks 
for  the  privilege,  began  to  bid  Fred,  the  Master  of 
Ceremonies,  good-night.  Soon  only  the  costumed 
members,  with  Richard  and  Nathan,  were  left.  So 
far  from  being  tired  out  with  the  night's  diversion, 
these  two  old  gentlemen  seemed  to  have  just  wakened 
up. 

Those  remaining  drew  their  chairs  together, 
lighted  fresh  cigars,  and  sat  down  to  talk  over  the 
events  of  the  evening.  Richard  related  an  anecdote 
of  Macready  when  playing  the  part  of  Hamlet;  Sted 
man  told  of  the  graceful  manner  in  which  Booth,  a 
few  months  before,  in  the  same  part,  had  handed  the 

flageolet  to  the  musicians,  and  the  way  the  words  fell 

510 


MR.   HUDSON'S   LOST   FOIL 

from  his  lips,  "  You  would  play  upon  me  " ;  Oliver^ 
addressing  his  words  rather  to  his  father  than  to  the 
room — acting  the  scene  as  he  talked,  and  in  his  tight- 
fitting  doublet,  looking  not  unlike  the  tragedian  him- 
f  self,  cut  in  with  a  description  of  the  great  tragedian's 
first  night  at  the  Winter  Garden  after  his  seclusion — 
a  night  when  the  whole  house  rose  to  greet  their 
favorite  and  cheered  and  roared  and  pounded 
everything  within  reach  of  their  hands  and  feet  for 
twenty  minutes,  while  Booth  stood  with  trembling 
knges,  the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks.  Munson 
remarked  with  some  feeling — he  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  the  actor — that  he  remembered  the  night 
perfectly,  having  sat  behind  Oliver,  and  that  Booth 
was  not  only  the  most  accomplished  actor  but  the 
best  swordsman  ever  seen  on  the  American  or  any 
other  stage.  Munson  was  an  expert  fencer  himself, 
as  was  evidenced  by  the  scar  on  his  left  cheek,  re 
ceived  when  he  was  a  student  at  Heidelberg,  and  so 
thought  himself  competent  to  judge. 

While  Munson  was  speaking  the  great  Waller  had 
risen  from  his  seat  for  the  first  time,  gathered 
his  gorgeous  raiment  closer  about  him,  crossed 
the  room,  and  now  stood  filling  a  thin  glass  from  a 
Venetian  flagon  that  graced  the  demoralized  table. 

"  Booth's  a  swordsman,  is  he  ?  "  he  said,  pushing 
back  his  turban  from  his  forehead,  and  walking  tow 
ard  Munson,  glass  in  hand,  his  baggy  trousers  and 
tunic  making  him  look  twice  his  regular  size.  "  You 

511 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORX 

know  as  much  about  fencing,  Munson,  as  you  do 
about  the  lost  tribes  of  Israel.  Booth  handles  hia 
foil  as  a  policeman  does  a  rattan  cane  in  the  pit  of  the 
Bowery.  Forrest  is  the  only  man  in  this  country  who 
can  handle  a  blade." 

"  I  do,  do  I  ?  "  cried  Munson,  springing  to  his  feet 
and  unhooking  a  pair  of  foils  decorating  the  wall. 
"  Stop  where  you  are,  you  caricature  of  Xana  Sa 
hib,  or  I'll  run  you  through  the  body  and  pin  you 
to  the  wall  like  a  beetle,  where  you  can  kick  to  your 
heart's  content.  Here,  catch  this,"  and  he  tossed  one 
of  the  foils  to  Waller. 

"  A  ring !  A  ring !  "  cried  the  men,  with  one  of 
those  sudden  inspirations  that  often  swept  over 
them,  jumping  from  their  seats  and  pushing  back  the 
chairs  and  music-racks  to  give  the  contestants  room. 

"Waller  laid  down  his  wine-glass,  slipped  off  his  tur 
ban  and  gold  embroidered  tunic  with  great  deliber 
ation,  threw  them  over  to  Oliver,  who  caught  them  in 
his  arms,  tightened  his  sash,  grasped  the  foil  in  his 
fat  hand,  and  with  great  gravity  made  a  savage  lunge 
at  the  counterfeit  presentment  of  William  Shake 
speare,  who  parried  his  blow  without  moving  from 
where  he  stood.  Thereupon  the  lithe,  well-built 
young  fellow  teetered  his  foil  in  the  air,  and  with 
great  nicety  pinked  his  fat  antagonist  in  the  stomach, 
selecting  a  gilt  band  just  above  his  sash  as  the  point 
of  contact. 

A  mock  battle  now  ensued,  Munson  chasing  Wal- 
532 


MR.   HUDSON'S  LOST  FOIL 

ler  about  the  room,  the  members  roaring  with  laugh 
ter,  Richard,  with  Oliver's  assistance,  having  mount' 
ed  the  divan  to  see  the  better,  clapping  his  hands  like 
any  boy  and  shouting,  "  Bravo !  Bravo !  Xow  the 
uppercut,  now  the  thrust!  Ah,  well  done.  Capital! 
Capital!"  < 

Oliver  listened  in  wonder  to  the  strange  expres 
sions  that  dropped  from  his  father's  lips.  Up  to  that 
moment  he  had  never  known  that  the  old  gentleman 
had  ever  touched  a  foil  in  his  life. 

4The  next  instant  Richard  was  on  the  floor  again, 
commiserating  with  Waller,  who  was  out  of  Munson's 
reach  and  out  of  breath  with  laughter,  and  congratu 
lating  Munson  on  his  skill  as  a  swordsman. 

"  I  only  noticed  one  flaw,  my  dear  Mr.  Munson, 
in  your  handling,"  he  cried,  with  a  graceful  wave  of 
the  hand,  "  and  that  may  be  due  to  your  more  modern 
way  of  fencing.  Pardon  me  " — and  he  picked  up 
Waller's  foil  where  he  had  dropped  it,  and  the  fine 
wrist  with  the  nimble  fingers,  that  had  served  him  so 
well  all  his  days,  closed  over  the  handle  of  the  foil. 
"  The  thrust  in  the  old  days  was  made  so.  You, 
I  think,  made  it  so  " — and  two  flashes  at  different 
angles  gleamed  in  the  candle-light. 

Munson,  as  if  to  humor  the  old  gentleman,  threw 
up  his  foil,  made  a  pass  or  two,  and,  to  his  intense  as 
tonishment,  received  the  "button  of  Richard's  foil  on 
his  black  velvet  jacket  and  within  an  inch  of  his  heart. 

Everybody  on  the  floor  at  once  circled  about  the 
513 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

Contestants.  The  spectacle  of  an  old  gentleman  in  a 
snuff-colored  coat  and  high  collar,  having  a  bout  with 
a  short  gentleman  in  shorter  velvet  trunks,  silk  hose,' 
and  steel  buckles,  was  one  too  droll  and  too  exhilarat 
ing  to  lose — anachronistic  it  was,  yet  quite  in  keeping 
with  the  surroundings.  More  exhilarating  still 
was  the  extreme  punctiliousness  with  which  the 
old  gentleman  raised  the  handle  of  his  foil  to  his  chin 
after  he  had  made  his  point,  and  saluted  his  antagon 
ist  as  if  he  had  been  some  knight  of  King  Arthur's 
table. 

Still  more  fascinating  was  the  way  in  which  the 
younger  man  settled  down  to  work,  his  brow  knit,  his 
lips  tightly  closed,  the  members  widening  out  to  give 
them  room,  Oliver  and  Nathan  cheering  the  loudest 
of  them  all  as  Richard's  foil  flashed  in  the  air,  parry 
ing,  receiving,  now  up,  now  down,  his  right  foot  edg- 
ing  closer,  his  dear  old  head  bent  low,  his  deep  eyes 
fixed  on  his  young  antagonist,  until,  with  a  quick 
thrust  of  his  arm  and  a  sudden  upward  twist  of  his 
hand,  he  wrenched  Munson's  foil  from  his  grasp  and 
sent  it  flying  across  the  room. 

Best  of  all  was  the  joyful  yet  apologetic  way  with 
which  Richard  sprang  forward  and  held  out  his  hand 
to  Munson,  crying  out: 

"  A  fluke,  my  dear  Mr.  Munson ;  quite  a  fluke,  I 
assure  you.  Pray  forgive  me.  A  mere  lucky  acci 
dent.  My  old  fencing  master,  Martini,  taught  me 

that  trick.    I  thought  I  had  quite  forgotten  it.    Just 

514 


ME.   MTXSO^'S  LOST   TOIL 

think !  it  is  forty  years  since  I  have  had  a  foil  in  my 
hands,"  and,  laughing  like  a  boy  he  crossed  the  room, 
picked  up  the  foil,  and,  bowing  low,  handed  it  to  the 
crestfallen  man  with  the  air  of  a  gallant. 

Half  the  club,  costumed  as  they  were — it  was  now 
after  midnight,  and  there  were  but  few  people  in  the 
streets — escorted  the  two  old  men  back  to  their  hotel. 
Munson  walked  beside  Richard;  Waller,  his  flow 
ing  skirts  tucked  up  inside  his  overcoat,  stepped 
on  the  right  of  Nathan ;  Oliver,  Fred,  and  the  others 
followed  behind,  the  hubbub  of  their  talk  filling  the 
night:  even  when  they  reached  the  side  door  of  the 
hotel  and  rang  up  the  night  porter,  they  must  still 
stand  on  the  sidewalk  listening  to  Richard's  account 
of  the  way  the  young  gallants  were  brought  up  in  his 
day;  of  the  bouts  with  the  foils;  and  of  the  duels 
which  were  fought  before  they  were  willing  to  take 
their  leave. 

When  the  last  good-byes  had  been  given,  and  Oli 
ver  had  waved  his  rapier  from  the  doorstep  as  a  final 
farewell  to  his  fellow-members  before  he  saw  his 
father  upstairs  to  bed,  and  the  delighted  escort  had 
turned  on  their  heels  to  retrace  their  steps  up  Broad 
way,  Waller  slipped  his  arm  into  Munson's,  and  said, 
in  his  most  thoughtful  tone,  one  entirely  free  from 
cynicism  or  badinage : 

"  What  a  lovely  pair  of  old  duffers.     We  talk 

about  Bohemia,  Munson,  and  think  we've  got  it,  but 

515 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HOEN 

we  haven't.  Our  kind  is  a  cheap  veneer  glued  to  com 
monplace  pine.  Their  kind  is  old  mahogany,  solid  all 
the  way  through — fine  grain,  high  polish  and  no 
knots.  I  only  wish  they  lived  here." 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

ra    THE    TWILIGHT 

Each  day  Margaret's  heart  warmecT  more  and  more 
to  Richard.  He  not  only  called  out  in  her  a  tender- 
ns  s  and  veneration  for  his  age  and  attainments  which 
hei  own  father  had  never  permitted  her  to  express, 
but  his  personality  realized  for  her  an  ideal  which, 
lift  til  she  knew  him,  she  had  despaired  of  ever  finding. 
While  his  courtesy,  his  old-time  manners,  his  quaint- 
ness  of  speech  and  dress  captivated  her  imagination, 
his  perfect  and  unfailing  sympathy  and  constant 
kindness  completely  won  her  heart.  There  was,  too, 
now  and  then,  a  peculiar  tone  in  his  voice  which  would 
bring  the  tears  to  her  eyes  without  her  knowing  why, 
until  her  mind  would  recall  some  blunt,  outspoken 
speech  of  her  dead  father's  in  answer  to  the  very  sen 
timents  she  was  then  expressing  to  Richard,  who  re 
ceived  them  as  a  matter  of  course — a  remembrance 
which  always  caused  a  tightening  about  her  heart. 

Sometimes  the  inventor  would  sit  for  her  while 
she  sketched  his  head  in  different  lights,  he  watching 
her  work,  interested  in  every  stroke,  every  bit  of 
composition.  She  loved  to  have  him  beside  her  easel 
critic-ising  her  work.  Xo  one,  she  told  Oliver,  had 
ever  been  so  interested  before  with  the  little  niceties 

517 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

of  her  technique — in  the  amount  of  oil  used,  in  the 
way  the  paints  were  mixed;  in  the  value  of  a  palette 
knife  as  a  brush  or  of  an  old  cotton  rag  as  a  blender, 
nor  had  any  one  of  her  sitters  ever  been  so  enthusias- 
tic  over  her  results. 

There  was  one  half-hour  sketch  which  more  than 
all  the  others  astonished  and  delighted  him — one  in 
which  Margaret  in  her  finishing  touches  had  eschewed 
brushes,  palette-knife  and  rag,  and  with  one  dash  of 
her  dainty  thumb  had  brought  into  instant  relief  the 
subtle  curves  about  his  finely  modelled  nose.  This 
filled  him  with  wonder  and  admiration.  His  own  fin 
gers  had  always  obeyed  him,  and  he  loved  to  find  the 
same  skill  in  another. 

To  Richard  these  hours  of  intercourse  with  Mar 
garet  were  among  the  happiest  of  his  life.  It  was 
Margaret,  indeed,  who  really  helped  him  bear  with 
patience  the  tedious  delays  attendant  upon  the  com 
pletion  of  his  financial  operations.  Even  when  the 
final  sum  was  agreed  upon — and  it  was  a  generous 
one,  that  filled  Oliver's  heart  with  joy  and  set  Na 
than's  imagination  on  fire — the  best  part  of  two  weeks 
had  been  consumed  before  the  firm  of  lawyers  who 
were  to  pass  upon  Richard's  patents  were  willing  to 
certify  to  the  purchasers  of  the  stock  of  the  Horn 
Magnetic  Motor  Company,  as  to  the  priority  of  Rich 
ard's  invention  based  on  the  patent  granted  on 
August  13,  1856,  and  which  covered  the  principle  of 

the  levers  working  in  connection  with  the  magnets. 

518 


IX  THE  TWILIGHT 

During  these  tedious  delays,  in  which  his  heart  had 
vibrated  between  hope  and  fear,  he  had  found  his 
way  every  afternoon  to  Margaret's  studio,  Nathan 
having  gone  home  to  Kennedy  Square  with  his  head 
in  the  clouds  when  the  negotiations  became  a  cer 
tainty.  In  these  weeks  of  waiting  the  Northern  girl 
had  not  only  stolen  his  heart,  taking  the  place  of  a 
daughter  he  had  never  known — a  void  never  filled  in 
any  man's  soul — but  she  had  satisfied  a  craving  no 
less  intense,  the  hunger  for  the  companionship  of 
one  wrho  really  understood  his  aims  and  purposes. 
Nathan  had  in  a  measure  met  this  need  as  far  as  un 
selfish  love  and  unswerving  loyalty  could  go;  and  so 
had  his  dear  wife,  especially  in  these  later  years, 
when  her  mind  had  begun  to  grasp  the  meaning  of 
the  social  and  financial  changes  that  the  war  had 
brought,  and  what  place  her  husband's  inventions 
might  hold  in  the  new  regime.  But  no  one  of  these, 
not  even  Nathan,  had  ever  understood  him  as  clearly 
as  had  this  young  girl. 

When  it  grew  too  dark  to  paint,  he  would  make 
her  sit  on  a  stool  at  his  feet,  while  he  would  talk  to  her 
of  his  life  work  and  of  the  future  as  he  saw  it — often 
of  things  which  he  had  kept  shut  away  in  his  heart 
even  from  Nathan.  He  would  tell  her  of  the  long 
years  of  anxiety;  of  the  sleepless  nights;  of  his  utter 
loneliness,  without  a  friend  to  guide  him,  while  he 
was  trying  to  solve  the  problems  that  had  blocked  his 

path;  of  the  poverty  of  these  late  years,  all  the  more 

519 


THE  FOKTUKES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

pitiful  because  of  his  inability  at  times  to  buy  eve*, 
the  bare  materials  and  instruments  needed  for  hig 
work;  and,  again,  of  his  many  disappointments  in 
his  search  for  the  hoped-for  link  that  was  needed 
to  make  his  motor  a  success. 

Once,  in  lowered  tones  and  with  that  eager,  rest 
less  expression  which  so  often  came  into  his  face  when 
standing  over  his  work-bench  in  his  little  shop,  baffled 
by  some  unsolved  problem,  he  told  her  of  his  many 
anxieties  lest  some  other  brain  groping  along  the 
same  paths  should  reach  the  goal  before  him;  how 
the  Scientific  Review,  the  one  chronicle  of  the  dis 
coveries  of  the  time,  would  often  lie  on  his  table  for 
hours  before  he  had  the  courage  to  open  it  and  read 
the  list  of  patents  granted  during  the  preceding 
months,  adding,  with  a  voice  full  of  gentleness,  "  I 
was  ashamed  of  it  all,  afterward,  my  dear,  but  Mrs. 
Horn  became  BO  anxious  over  our  daily  expenses, 
and  so  much  depended  on  my  success." 

This  brave  pioneer  did  not  realize,  nor  did  she, 
that  they  were  both  valiant  soldiers  fighting  the  good 
fight  of  science  and  art  against  tradition  and  provin 
cialism — part  of  that  great  army  of  progress  which 
was  steadily  conquering  the  world! 

As  she  listened  in  the  darkening  shadows,  her  hand 
in  his,  her  fingers  tight  about  his  own,  he,  reading 
the  sympathy  of  her  touch,  and  fearing  to  have  dis 
tressed  her  by  his  talk,  had  started  up,  and  in  hw 
cheery,  buoyant  voice  cried  out: 

620 


"  But  it  is  all  over  now,  my  child.  All  past  and 
gone.  The  work  of  my  life  is  finished.  There's 
plenty  now  for  all  of  us.  For  my  dear  wife  who  has 
borne  up  so  bravely  and  has  never  complained,  and 
for  you  and  Oliver.  Your  waiting  need  not  be  long, 
my  dear.  This  last  happiness  which  has  come  to  me  " 
- — and  he  smoothed  her  hair  gently  with  his  thin 
hand  and  drew  her  closer  to  him — "  seems  the  great 
est  of  them  all." 

The  two  were  seated  in  this  way  one  afternoon, 
Margaret  resting  after  a  day's  work,  when  Oliver 
opened  the  door.  She  had  made  a  sketch  of  Rich 
ard's  head  that  very  morning  as  he  lay  back  in  a  big 
chair,  a  strong,  vigorous  piece  of  work  which  she 
afterward  finished. 

Richard  looked  up  and  his  face  broke  into  a  joyous 
smile. 

"  Bring  a  chair,  my  son,"  he  cried,  "  and  sit  by 
me.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you."  When,  a 
few  moments  later,  Margaret  had  left  the  room  to 
give  some  directions  to  Mrs.  Mulligan,  he  added:  "  I 
have  been  telling  Margaret  that  you  both  do  wrong 
in  putting  off  your  marriage.  These  delays  fret 
young  people's  lives  away.  She  tells  me  it  is  your 
wish.  What  are  you  waiting  for  ?  " 

"  Only  for  money  enough  to  take  care  of  her, 
father.  Madge  has  been  accustomed  to  more  com 
forts  than  I  can  give  her.  She  would,  I  know,  cheer- 

521 


THE  FORTUKES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

fully  give  up  half  of  her  income,  small  as  it  is,  to  me 
if  I  would  let  her,  but  that  is  not  the  way  I  want  to 
make  her  happy.  Don't  worry,  dear  old  dad,  the  Fish 
portrait  will  pull  us  out " — and  he  leaned  down  and 
put  his  arms  about  his  father's  neck  as  he  used  to 
do  when  he  was  a  boy.  "I  shall  get  there  before 
long." 

Oliver  did  not  tell  his  father  what  a  grief  it  had 
been  to  him  to  keep  Madge  waiting,  nor  how  he  had 
tried  to  make  it  up  to  her  in  every  way  while  he  had 
made  his  fight  alone.  "Nor  did  he  tell  Richard  of  the 
principal  cause  of  his  waiting — that  the  mortgage  to 
which  his  mother  had  pledged  her  name  and  to  which 
he  had  morally  pledged  his  own  was  still  unpaid. 

Richard  listened  to  Oliver's  outburst  without  in 
terrupting  him. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  do  the  best  I  could  for  you  my 
son,"  he  answered,  laying  his  fingers  on  Oliver's 
hand.  "  I  was  thinking  of  nothing  but  your  happi 
ness.  During  the  last  few  days,  since  I  have  become 
assured  that  this  negotiation  would  go  through,  1 
have  decided  to  carry  out  a  plan  which  has  long  been 
in  my  mind  and  which,  now  that  I  know  about  Mar 
garet,  makes  it  all  the  more  necessary.  I  am  going 
to  make  provision  for  you  immediately.  This,  I  hope, 
will  be  to-morrow  or  the  next  day  at  farthest.  The 
contracts  are  all  ready  for  our  signatures,  and  only 
await  the  return  of  one  of  the  attorneys  who  is  out  of 

town.    The  cash  sum  they  pay  for  the  control  of  the 

522 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

patents  is,  as  you  know,  a  considerable  one;  then  I 
get  nearly  half  of  the  capital  stock  of  the  new  com 
pany.  I  am  going  to  give  you,  at  once,  one-third  of 
the  money  and  one-third  of  the  stock." 

Oliver  raised  his  hand  in  protest,  but  Richard  kept 
on. 

"  It  is  but  just,  my  son.  There  are  but  three  of  us 
• — your  mother,  yourself,  and  I.  It  is  only  your 
share.  I  won't  have  you  and  Margaret  waiting  until 
I  am  gone  " — and  he  looked  up  with  a  smile  on  his 

face. 

« 

Oliver  stood  for  a  moment  dazed  at  the  joyous 
news,  his  father's  hand  in  his,  the  tears  dimming  his 
eyes.  While  he  was  thanking  him,  telling  him  how 
glad  he  was  that  the  struggle  was  over  and  how  proud 
he  was  of  his  genius,  Margaret  stole  up  behind  him 
and  put  her  hands  over  his  eyes,  bidding  him  guess 
who  it  was — as  if  there  could  be  another  woman  in 
the  whole  world  who  would  take  the  liberty.  Oliver 
caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  whispering  in 
her  ears  the  joyous  news  with  her  cheek  close  to  his; 
and  Margaret  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  then 
put  her  arms  around  Richard  and  kissed  him  without 
a  word — the  first  time  she  had  ever  dared  so  much. 

Oh,  but  there  were  joyous  times  that  followed! 

Mrs.  Mulligan,  at  a  whispered  word  from  her  mis 
tress,  ran  down-stairs  as  fast  as  her  old  legs  could 
carry  her  and  came  back  with  her  arms  full  of  bun 
dles,  which  she  dumped  upon  her  small  kitchen-table. 

523 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HOR3T 

And  Margaret  put  on  a  clean  white  apron,  white  as 
snow,  and  rolled  up  her  sleeves,  showing  her  beauti 
ful  arms  above  her  elbows — Oliver  always  vowed 
that  she  had  picked  them  up  where  the  Milo 
had  dropped  them — and  began  emptying  the  contents 
of  a  bowl  of  oysters,  one  of  Mrs.  Mulligan's  packages, 
into  a  chafing-dish.  And  Oliver  wheeled  out  the  table 
and  brought  out  the  cloth,  and  dear  old  Richard,  his 
face  full  of  smiles,  placed  the  napkins  with  great  pre 
cision  beside  each  plate,  puckering  them  up  into  little 
sheaves,  "  just  as  Malachi  would  have  done,"  he  said; 
and  then  Margaret  whispered  to  Oliver  if  he  didn't 
think  "  it  would  be  just  the  very  thing,"  they  were 
"  so  anxious  to  see  him  " — and  Oliver  thought  it 
would — he  was  cutting  bread  at  the  moment,  and 
getting  it  ready  for  Mrs.  Mulligan  to  toast  on  her 
cracker-box  of  a  range ;  and  Margaret,  with  her  arms 
and  her  cheeks  scarlet,  ran  out  in  the  hall  and  down 
the  corridor,  and  came  back,  out  of  breath,  with 
two  other  girls — one  in  a  calico  frock  belted  in  at 
her  slender  waist,  and  the  other  in  a  black  bombazine 
and  a  linen  collar.  And  Richard  looked  into  their 
faces,  and  took  them  both  by  the  hand  and  told  them 
how  glad  he  was  to  be  permitted  to  share  in  their 
merrymakings ;  and  then,  when  Oliver  had  drawn  out 
the  chairs — one  was  a  stool,  by  the  way — the  whole 
party  sat  down,  Oliver  at  the  foot  and  Richard  on 
Margaret's  right,  the  old  gentleman  remarking,  as 

he  opened  his  napkin,  that  but  one  thing  was  wanting 

524 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

to  complete  his  happiness,  and  that  was  Oliver^ 
mother,  who  of  all  women  in  the  world  would  enjoy 
the  occasion  the  most. 

But  the  happiest  time  of  all  was  over  the  soup,  or 
rather  over  the  tureen,  or  rather  what  was  inside  of 
it — or  worse  still,  what  was  not.  This  wonderful  soup 
had  been  ordered  at  the  restaurant  across  the  way, 
and  was  to  be  brought  in  smoking  hot  at  the  ap 
pointed  time  by  a  boy.  The  boy  arrived  on  the  min 
ute,  and  so  did  the  tureen — a  gayly  flowered  affair 
with  a  cover,  the  whole  safely  ensconced  in  a  basket. 
"When  the  lid  was  lifted  and  Margaret  and  the  two 
girls  looked  in,  a  merry  shout  went  up.  Not  a  drop 
of  soup  was  in  the  tureen!  The  boy  craned  his  head 
in  amazement,  and  Mrs.  Mulligan,  who  stood  by  with 
the  plates,  and  who  had  broken  out  into  violent  gest 
ures  at  the  sight  was  about  to  upbraid  the  boy  for  his 
stupidity,  when  Margaret's  quick  eye  discovered  a 
trail  of  grease  running  down  the  table-cloth,  along 
the  floor  and  out  of  the  door.  Whereupon  everybody 
got  up,  including  Richard,  and  with  roars  of  laughter 
followed  the  devious  trail  out  into  the  hall  and  so 
on  down  the  staircase  as  far  as  they  could  see.  Only 
when  Mrs.  Mulligan  on  their  return  to  the  room  held 
up  the  tureen  and  pointed  to  a  leak  in  its  bottom,  was 
the  mystery  explained. 

And  so  the  merry  dinner  went  on. 

Ah,  dear  old  man,  if  these  happy  days  could  only 
have  gone  on  till  the  end. 

525 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  following  this  joyous 
night- — the  day  the  contracts  were  to  be  signed,  a  cul 
mination  which  would  make  everybody  happy — • 
Margaret  hurried  up  the  stairs  of  her  building,  and 
pushed  open  the  door.  She  knew  she  should  find  the 
inventor  waiting  for  her,  and  she  wanted  to  be  the 
first  to  get  the  glad  news  from  his  lips.  It  was  var 
nishing  day  at  the  Academy,  and  she  had  gone  down 
to  put  the  last  touches  on  her  big  portrait — the  one  of 
"  Madame  X."  that  she  had  begun  in  Paris  the  year 
before. 

Richard  did  not  move  when  she  entered.  He  was 
leaning  back  in  the  chair  she  had  placed  for  him,  his 
head  on  his  hand,  his  attitude  one  of  thoughtful  re 
pose,  the  light  of  the  fast-fading  twilight  making  a 
silhouette  of  his  figure.  She  thought  he  was  dozing, 
and  so  crept  up  behind  him  to  make  sure. 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  is  that  you?  "  he  asked.  The  voice 
did  not  sound  like  Richard's. 

"  Yes — I  thought  you  were  asleep." 

"  No,  my  child — I'm  only  greatly  troubled.  I'm 
glad  you  have  come  " — and  he  took  her  hand  and 
smoothed  it  with  his  own.  "  Bring  your  stool;  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"Without  taking  off  her  bonnet  and  cloak,  she  took 
her  place  at  his  feet.  The  tones  of  his  voice  chilled 
her.  A  great  fear  rose  in  her  heart.  Why  she  could 
not  tell. 

"Has  anything  happened  to  Oliver?"  she  asked, 
eagerly. 

526 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

"  No,  nothing  so  terrible  as  that.  It  is  about  the 
motor.  The  bankers  have  refused  the  loan,  and  the 
attorneys  have  withdrawn  the  papers." 

"  "Withdrawn  the  papers  I  Oh,  no  it  can't  be !  " 
She  had  leaned  forward  now,  her  anxious,  startled 
eyes  looking  into  his. 

"  Yes,  my  dear;  a  Mr.  Gorton  from  Maine  has  per 
fected  a  machine  which  not  only  accomplishes  what  I 
claim  for  my  own,  but  is  much  better  in  every  way. 
The  attorneys  have  been  looking  into  this  new  motor 
for  a  week  past,  so  I  learn  now.  Here  is  their  letter  " 
—and  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  took  out  a 
white  envelope.  "  They  will,  perhaps,  take  up  Mr. 
Gorton's  machine  instead  of  mine.  I  made  a  hasty 
examination  of  this  new  motor  this  morning  with  my 
old  friend  Professor  Morse,  and  we  both  agree  that 
the  invention  is  all  Mr.  Gorton  claims  for  it.  It  is 
only  a  beginning,  of  course,  along  the  lines  of  gal 
vanic  energy,  but  it  is  a  better  beginning  than  mine, 
and  I  feel  sure  it  is  all  the  inventor  claims  for  it.  I 
have  so  informed  them,  and  I  have  also  written  a  let 
ter  to  Mr.  Gorton  congratulating  him  on  his  suc 
cess."  The  calmness  and  gentleness  of  his  voice 
thrilled  her. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  telegraphed  the  news 
to  Mrs.  Horn,  as  I  promised,"  he  continued,  slowly 
as  if  each  word  gave  him  pain,  "  but  I  really  had  not 
the  heart,  so  I  came  up  here.  I've  been  here  all  the 
afternoon  hoping  you  would  come  in.  The  room  felt 

537 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

a  little  cold,  my  dear,  and  jour  good  woman  made  a 
fire  for  me,  as  you  see.    You  don't  mind,  do  you?  " 

Margaret  bowed  her  head  on  his  hands  and  kissed 
the  thin  fingers  that  lay  in  her  own.  Her  heart  was 
full  to  bursting.  The  pathos  of  the  bent  figure,  the 
despairing  sound  of  his  voice — so  unlike  his  buoyant 
tones;  the  ghostly  light  that  permeated  the  room,  so 
restful  always  before,  so  grewsome  and  forbidding 
now,  appealed  to  her  in  a  way  she  had  never  known. 
She  was  not  thinking  of  herself,  nor  of  Oliver,  nor  of 
the  wife  waiting  for  the  news  at  home ;  she  was  only 
thinking  of  this  dear  old  man  who  sat  with  bowed 
head,  his  courage  gone,  all  the  joyousness  out  of  hia 
life.  What  hurt  her  most  was  her  own  utter  helpless 
ness.  In  most  things  she  could  be  of  service:  now 
she  was  powerless.  She  knew  it  when  she  spoke. 

"  Is  it  ended?  "  she  asked  at  last,  her  practical  mind 
wanting  to  know  the  worst. 

"  Yes,  my  child,  ended.  I  wish  I  could  give  you 
some  hope,  but  there  is  none.  I  shall  go  home  to 
morrow  and  begin  again; — on  what  I  do  not  know — 
something — I  cannot  tell." 

Oliver's  footsteps  sounded  in  the  outer  hall.  She 
rose  quickly  and  met  him  on  the  outside,  half  closing 
the  door,  so  that  she  could  tell  him  the  dreadful  news 
without  being  overheard. 

"Broken  their  promises  to  father!  Impossible! 
Why?  What  for?  Another  invention?  Oh,  it  can 
not  be  I » 

628 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

He  walked  quickly  toward  him.  "  But  father, 
what  about  your  patents?  They  can't  rob  you  of 
them.  Suppose  this  man's  motor  is  better." 

Richard  did  not  move.  He  seemed  unwilling  to 
(o ok  his  son  in  the  face. 

"  Let  me  take  hold  of  this  thing."  Oliver  was 
bending  over  him  now,  his  arms  about  his  neck.  "  I'll 
see  Mr.  Slade  at  once.  I  met  him  this  morning  and 
told  him  you  were  here,  and  he  is  coming  to  call  on 
you.  He  has  always  stood  by  me  and  will  now. 
These  people  who  have  disappointed  you  are  not  the 
only  ones  who  have  got  money.  Mr.  Slade,  you 
know,  is  now  a  banker  himself.  I  will  begin  to-mor 
row  to  fight  this  new  man  who " 

"  No,  no,  my  son,  you  must  do  nothing  of  the 
kind,"  said  Richard  leaning  his  cheek  wearily  against 
Oliver's  hand,  as  if  for  warmth  and  protection,  but 
still  looking  into  the  fire.  "  It  would  not  be  right  to 
take  from  him  what  he  has  honestly  earned.  The  lift 
ing  power  of  his  machine  is  four  times  my  own,  and 
the  adjustment  of  the  levers  much  simpler.  He  has 
cnly  accomplished  what  I  failed  to  do.  I  am  not  quite 
sure  but  I  think  he  uses  the  same  arrangement  of 
levers  that  I  do,  but  everything  else  is  his.  Such  a 
man  is  to  be  helped,  not  worried  with  lawsuits.  No, 
my  son,  I  must  bear  it  as  best  I  may.  Your  poor 
mother!  "  He  stopped  suddenly  and  passed  his  hand 
over  his  eyes,  and  in  a  broken,  halting  voice,  added: 

<l  I've  tried  so  hard  to  make  her  old  age  happier.    1 

529 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

fear  for  the  result  when  the  news  reaches  her.  And 
you  and  this  poor  girl !  " — and  he  reached  out  hia 
hand  to  Margaret — "  this  is  the  part  that  is  hardest 
to  bear." 

Oliver  disengaged  his  arm  from  his  father's  neck 
and  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  Madge  watching 
him.  His  mind  was  searching  about  for  some  way 
to  stem  the  tide  of  disaster.  Every  movement  of 
his  body  expressing  his  determination.  He  was  not 
thinking  of  himself.  He  saw  only  Madge  and  his 
mother.  Then  he  turned  again  and  faced  his 
father. 

"  Will  you  let  me  try?  "  he  urged  in  a  firm  voice. 

"  No,  Oliver !    Positively  no." 

As  he  spoke  he  straightened  himself  in  his  chair 
and  turned  toward  Oliver.  His  voice  had  regained 
something  of  its  old-time  ring  and  force.  "  To  rob 
a  man  of  the  work  of  his  brain  is  worse  than  to  take 
his  purse.  You  will  agree  with  me,  I  know,  when  you 
think  it  over.  Mr.  Gorton  had  never  heard  of  my  in 
vention  when  he  perfected  his,  nor  had  I  ever  heard 
of  his  when  I  perfected  mine.  He  is  taking  nothing 
from  me ;  how  can  I  take  anything  from  him  ?  Give 
me  your  hand  my  son;  I  am  not  feeling  very  well." 
His  voice  fell  again  as  if  the  effort  had  been  too 
much  for  him.  "  I  think  I  will  go  back  to  the  hotel. 
A  right's  rest  will  do  me  good." 

He  rose  slowly  from  his  chair,  steadied  himself 

by  holding  to  Oliver's  strong  arm,  stood  for  an  in 

530 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

slant  looking  into  Margaret's  eyes,  and  said,  with 
infinite  tenderness: 

"  Come  closer,  my  daughter,  and  kiss  me." 

She  put  her  arms  about  him,  cuddling  her  head 
•>^ainst  his  soft  cheek,  smoothing  his  gray  hair  with 
uer  palm. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  you  have  been  a  delight 
and  joy  to  me.  A  woman  like  you  is  beyond  price. 
I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  for  loving 
my  son." 

With  something  of  his  old  manner  he  again 
straightened  himself  up,  threw  his  shoulders  back 
as  if  strengthened  by  some  new  determination, 
walked  firmly  across  the  room,  and  picked  up  his 
-cloak.  As  he  stood  waiting  for  Oliver  to  place  it 
about  his  shoulders,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  side,  with 
a  quick  movement,  as  if  smitten  by  some  sudden 
pain,  staggered  backward,  his  head  upon  his  breast, 
and  would  have  sunk  to  the  floor  but  for  Oliver's 
hand.  Margaret  sprang  forward  and  caught  his 
other  arm. 

"  It's  nothing,  my  son,"  he  said,  between  his 
gasps  for  breath,  holding  on  to  Oliver.  "  A  sudden 
giddiness.  I'm  often  subject  to  it.  I,  perhaps,  got 
up  too  quickly.  It  will  pass  over.  Let  me  sit  down 
for  a  moment." 

Half  supporting  him,  Oliver  put  his  arm  about 
his  father  and  laid  him  on  the  lounge. 

As  Richard's  head  touched  the  cushion  that  Mar- 
631 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

garet  had  made  ready,  lie  gave  a  quick  gasp,  half 
rose  as  if  to  breathe  the  better,  and  fell  back  un 
conscious. 

When  the  doctor  arrived  Richard  was  lying  on 
Margaret's  bed,  where  Oliver  had  carried  him.  He 
had  rallied  a  little,  and  had  then  sunk  into  a  deep 
eleep.  Margaret  sat  beside  him,  watching  every 
breath  he  drew,  the  scalding  tears  streaming  down 
her  face. 

The  physician  bent  closer  and  pressed  his  ear  to 
the  sleeping  man's  breast. 

"  Has  he  been  subject  to  these  attacks? "  he  said, 
in  a  grave  tone. 

"  I  know  of  only  one  some  years  ago,  the  year 
the  war  broke  out,  but  he  recovered  then  very 
quickly,"  answered  Oliver. 

"  Is  your  mother  living  ?w 

"  Yes." 

*'  Better  send  her  word  at  once." 


CHAPTER   XXV 

SMOULDERING    COALS 

The  night  wind  sighed  through  the  old  sycamores 
of  Kennedy  Square.  A  soft  haze,  the  harbinger  of 
the  coming  spring,  filled  the  air.  The  cold  moon, 
hanging  low,  bleached  the  deserted  steps  of  the 
silent  houses  to  a  ghostly  white. 

In  the  Horn  mansion  a  dim  light  burned  in  Rich 
ard's  room  and  another  in  the  lower  halL  Every 
where  else  the  house  was  dark. 

Across  the  Square,  in  Miss  Clendenning's  bou 
doir,  a  small  wood  fire,  tempering  the  chill  of  the 
April  night,  slumbered  in  its  bed  of  ashes,  or  awak 
ened  with  fitful  starts,  its  restless  blaze  illumining 
the  troubled  face  of  Margaret  Grant.  The  girl's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  dying  coals,  her  chin  in  hei 
hand,  the  brown-gold  of  her  wonderful  hair  gold-red 
in  the  firelight.  Xow  and  then  she  would  lift  her 
head  as  if  listening  for  some  approaching  footstep. 
Miss  Clendenning  sat  beside  her,  leaning  over  the 
hearth  in  her  favorite  attitude,  her  tiny  feet  resting 
on  the  fender. 

The  years  had  touched  the  little  lady  but  lightly 

since  that  night  when   she   sat  in   this  same   spot 

533 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

and  Oliver  had  poured  out  his  heart  to  her.  She 
was  the  same  dainty,  precise,  lovable  old  maid  that 
ehe  had  been  in  the  old  days  of  Kennedy  Square, 
when  the  crocuses  bloomed  in  the  flower-beds  and  ha 
drawing-rooms  were  filled  with  the  wit  and  fashion 
of  the  day.  Since  that  fatal  night  when  Richard 
had  laid  away  his  violin  and  brother  had  been  divided 
against  brother,  and  Kennedy  Square  had  become 
the  stamping  ground  of  armed  men,  she  had  watched 
by  the  bedsides  of  a  thousand  wounded  soldiers,  re 
gardless  of  which  flag  they  had  battled  under.  The 
service  had  not  withered  her.  Time  had  simply 
stood  still,  forgetting  the  sum  of  its  years,  while  it 
marked  her  with  perennial  sweetness. 

"  I'm  afraid  he's  worse,"  Margaret  said,  breaking 
the  silence  of  the  room,  as  she  turned  to  Miss  Clen- 
denning,  "  or  Ollie  would  have  been  here  before 
this.  Dr.  Wallace  was  to  go  to  the  house  at  eleven, 
and  now  it  is  nearly  twelve." 

"  The  doctor  may  have  been  detained,"  Miss  Clen- 
denning  answered.  "  There  is  much  sickness  in 
town." 

For  a  time  neither  spoke.  Only  the  low  mutter 
ing  of  the  fire  could  be  heard,  or  the  turning  of  some 
restless  coal. 

"  Margaret,"  Miss  Clendenning  said  at  last — it 
had  always  been  "  Margaret "  with  the  little  lady 
ever  since  the  day  she  had  promised  Oliver  to  love 

the  woman  whom  he  loved;    and  it  was  still  "  Mar« 

534 


SMOULDERING    COALS 

garet  "  when  the  women  met  for  the  first  time  in 
tlie  gray  dawn  at  the  station  and  Miss  Clendenning 
herself  helped  lead  Richard  out  of  the  train — 
"  There  is  a  bright  side  to  every  trouble.  But  for 
this  illness  you  would  never  have  known  Oliver's 
mother  as  she  really  is.  All  her  prejudices  melted 
away  as  soon  as  she  looked  into  your  face.  She  loves 
you  better  every  day,  and  she  is  learning  to  depend 
on  you  just  as  Richard  and  Oliver  have  done." 

"  I  hope  she  will,"  the  young  woman  answered, 
without  moving.  "  It  breaks  my  heart  to  see  her 
bifffer  as  she  does.  I  see  my  own  mother  in  her  so 
often.  She  is  different  in  many  ways,  but  she  is 
the  same  underneath — so  gentle  and  so  kind,  and 
she  is  so  big  and  broad-minded  too.  I  am  ashamed 
to  think  of  all  the  bitter  feelings  I  used  to  have  in 
my  heart  toward  her." 

She  stopped  abruptly,  her  hands  tightly  folded  in 
her  lap,  her  shoulders  straightened.  Margaret's  con- 
:essions  were  always  made  in  this  determined  way, 
head  thrown  back  like  a  soldier's,  as  though  a  new 
resolve  had  been  born  even  while  an  old  sin  was 
being  confessed.  * 

"  Go  on,"  said  Miss  Clendenning.  u  I  under 
stand.  You  mean  that  you  did  not  know  her." 

"  Xo ;  but  I  thought  her  narrow  and  proud,  and 
that  she  disliked  me  for  influencing  Oliver  in  his 
art,  and  that  she  wanted  to  keep  him  from  me  and 

from  my  ideals.    Oh,  I've  been  very,  very  wicked t " 

535 


THE  FOETUSES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

"  "Not  wicked,  my  dear — only  human.  You  are 
not  the  first  woman  who  did  not  want  to  divide  a 
love  with  a  mother." 

"  But  it  wasn't  exactly  that,  dear  Cousin  Lavinia. 
I  had  never  met  anyone  who  obeyed  his  mother  as 
Ollie  did,  and — and — I  almost  hated  her  for  being 
his  guide  and  counsel  when — oh,  not  because  she  did 
not  love  him  too,  just  as  I  did — but  because  I 
thought  that  I  could  really  help  him  most — because 
I  believed  in  his  talent  and  she  did  not,  and  because 
I  knew  all  the  time  that  she  was  ruining  him,  keep 
ing  him  back,  spoiling  his  career,  and " 

Again  she  stopped  and  straightened  herself,  her 
beautiful  head  held  higher.  Those  who  knew  Mar 
garet  well  would  have  known  that  the  worst  part 
of  her  confession  was  yet  to  come. 

"  I  suppose  I  was  hurt  too,"  she  said,  slowly  accen 
tuating  each  pause  with  a  slight  movement  of  the 
head.  "  That  I  was  little  enough  and  mean  enough 
and  horrid  enough  for  that.  But  he  was  always  talk 
ing  of  his  mother  as  though  she  never  did  anything 
but  sit  still  in  that  white  shawl  of  hers,  listening  to 
music,  while  everybody  waited  on  her  and  came  to 
her  for  advice.  And  I  always  thought  that  she 
couldn't  understand  me  nor  any  other  woman  who 
wanted  to  work.  When  Ollie  talked  of  you  all,  and 
of  what  you  did  at  home,  I  couldn't  help  feeling  she 
must  think  that  I  and  all  my  people  belonged  to 
Borne  different  race  and  that  when  she  saw  me  she 

536 


SMOULDERING    COALS 

would  judge  me  by  some  petty  thing  that  displeased 
her,  the  cut  of  my  skirt,  or  the  way  I  carried  my 
hands,  or  something  else  equally  trivial,  and  that  she 
would  use  that  kind  of  thing  against  me  and,  perhaps, 
tell  Ollie,  too.  Father  judged  Oliver  in  that  way.  Hf ,' 
thought  that  Ollie's  joyousness  and  his  courtesy,, 
even  his  way  of  taking  off  his  hat,  and  holding  it 
in  his  two  hands  for  a  moment — you've  seen  him  do 
it  a  hundred  times — was  only  a  proof  of  his  South 
ern  shiftlessness — caring  more  for  manners  than  for 

work.    Mother  didn't;   she  understood  Ollie  better, 
« 

and  so  did  John,  but  father  never  could.  That's 
why  I  wouldn't  come  when  you  asked  me.  You 
wouldn't  have  judged  me,  I  know,  but  I  thought 
that  she  would.  And  now — oh,  I'm  so  sorry  I  could 
cry." 

"  It  was  only  another  of  the  mistakes  and  misun 
derstandings  that  divided  us  all  at  that  time,  my 
dear,"  Miss  Clendenning  answered.  "  This  dreadful 
war  could  have  been  averted,  if  people  had  only  come 
together  and  understood  each  other.  I  did  not  think 
so  then,  but  I  do  now." 

"  And  you  don't  think  me  wicked,  Cousin  La- 
vinia  ? "  Margaret  asked  with  a  sudden  relaxation  of 
her  figure  and  something  infinitely  childlike  and  ap 
pealing  in  her  tone.  "  You  really  don't  think  me 
wicked,  do  you? " 

"  Not  wicked,  dear;  only  human,  as  I  said  a  mo 
ment  ago.  Yet  you  have  been  stronger  than  I.  You 
have  held  on  and  won;  I  let  go  and  lost." 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORX 


Margaret  bent  forward  and  laid  her  finger  on 
Clendenning's  knee. 

"Lost  what,  Cousin  Lavinia?"  she  asked,  in  sur 
prise. 

"  My  lover." 

"When?" 

"  "When  I  was  just  your  age." 

"Did  he  die?"  asked  Margaret  in  awed  tones, 
overcome  all  at  once  with  the  solemnity  of  the  hour 
and  a  strange  new  note  in  Miss  Laviiiia's  voice. 

"  !N"o,  he  married  someone  else." 

"  He  never  —  never  loved  you,  then."  There  was 
a  positiveness  now  in  her  intonations. 

"  Yes,  he  did,  with  all  his  heart.  His  mother 
came  between  us." 

Again  silence  fell  on  the  room.    Margaret  would 

'/iot  look  at  Miss  Clendenning.     The  little  old  maid 

had  suddenly  opened  the  windows  of  her  heart,  but 

whether  to  let  a   long-caged  sorrow  out  or  some 

riendly  sympathy  in,  she  could  not  tell. 

"May  I  know  about  it?"  There  was  a  softer 
cadence  now  in  the  girl's  voice. 

u  It  would  only  make  you  unhappy,  dear.  It  was 
all  over  forty  years  or  more  ago.  Sallie,  when  she 
saw  you,  put  her  arms  about  you.  You  had  only  to 
come  together.  The  oftener  she  sees  you,  the  more 
she  will  love  you.  My  lover's  mother  shut  the  door 
in  my  face." 

"In  your  face?    Why?" 
538 


SMOULDEKLSTG    COALS 

Margaret  moved  closer  to  Miss  Clendenning, 
stirred  by  a  sudden  impulse,  as  if  she  could  even  now 
protect  her  from  one  who  had  hurt  her. 

Miss  Lavinia  bent  forward  and  picked  up  the 
brass  tongs  that  lay  on  the  fender  at  her  feet.  She 
saw  Margaret's  gesture,  but  she  did  not  turn  her 
head.  Her  eyes  were  still  watching  the  smouldering 
embers. 

"  For  no  reason,  dear,  that  you  or  any  other 
Northern  woman  could  understand.  An  old  family 
qr«rrei  that  began  before  I  was  born." 

Margaret's  cheeks  flushed  and  a  determined  look 
came  into  her  face. 

"  The  coward!  I  would  not  have  cared  what  his 
mother  or  anybody  else  did,  or  how  they  quarrelled. 
If  I  loved  you  I  would  have  married  you  in  spite  of 
everything." 

"  And  so  would  he."  She  was  balancing  the  tongs 
in  her  hand  now,  her  eyes  still  on  the  fire.  She  had 
not  looked  at  Margaret  once. 

"  What  happened  then?  " 

Miss  Clendenning  leaned  forward,  spread  the 
tongs  in  her  little  hands,  lifted  an  ember  and  tucked 
it  closer  to  its  neighbor.  The  charred  mass  crum 
bled  at  the  touch  and  fell  into  a  heap  of  broken  coals. 

"  I  am  a  Clendenning,  my  dear;  that  is  all,"  she 
answered,  slowly. 

Margaret  stared  at  her  with  wide-open  eyes.    That 

a  life  should  be  wrecked  for  a  mere  question  of 

539 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN" 

family  pride  was  something  lier  mind  could  not 
fathom. 

"  Have  you  regretted  it  since,  Cousin  Lavinia  ?  " 
she  asked,  calmly.  She  wanted  to  follow  it  out  nov/ 
to  the  end. 

Miss  Clendenning  heaped  the  broken  coals  closer 
together,  laid  the  tongs  back  in  their  place  on  the 
fender,  and,  turning  to  Margaret,  said,  with  a  sigh: 

"  Don't  ask  me,  my  dear.  I  never  dare  ask  my 
self,  but  do  you  keep  your  hand  close  in  Oliver's. 
Remember,  dear,  close — close !  Then  you  will  never 
know  the  bitterness  of  a  lonely  life." 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  bent  down,  and,  taking 
Margaret's  cheeks  between  her  palms,  kissed  her  on 
the  forehead. 

Margaret  put  her  arms  about  the  little  lady,  and 
was  about  to  draw  her  nearer,  when  the  front  door 
opened  and  a  step  was  heard  in  the  hall.  Miss  La 
vinia  raised  herself  erect,  listening  to  the  sound. 

"  Hark !  "  she  cried,  "  there's  the  dear  fellow, 
now  " — and  she  advanced  to  meet  him,  her  gentle 
countenance  once  more  serene. 

Oliver's  face  as  he  entered  the  room  told  the  story. 

"  ISTot  worse?  "  Margaret  exclaimed,  starting  from 
her  chair. 

"  Yes — much  worse.  I  have  just  sent  word  to 
Uncle  Nat " — and  he  kissed  them  both.  "  Put  on 
your  things  at  once.  The  doctor  is  anxious." 

Miss  Lavinia  caught  up  her  cloak,  handed  Mar- 
540 


SMOULDEKIN"G    COALS 

garet  her  shawl,  and  the  three  hurried  out  the  front- 
door  and  along  the  Square,  passing  the  Pancoast 
house,  now  turned  into  offices,  its  doors  and  win 
dows  covered  with  signs,  and  the  Clayton  Mansion, 
surmounted  by  a  flag-pole  and  still  used  by  the  Gov 
ernment.  Entering  the  park,  they  crossed  the  site 
of  the  once  lovely  flower-beds,  now  trampled  flat — 
as  was  everything  else  in  the  grounds — and  so  on 
to  the  marble  steps  of  the  Horn  Mansion. 

Mrs.  Horn  met  them  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  She 
put  her  arms  silently  about  Margaret,  kissed  her 
tenderly,  and  led  her  into  Richard's  room.  Oliver 
and  Miss  Clendenning  stood  at  the  door. 

The  master  lay  under  the  canopy  of  the  four-post 
bedstead,  his  eyes  closed,  the  soft  white  hair  lost  in 
the  pillows,  the  pale  face  tinged  with  the  glow  of 
the  night  lamp.  Dr.  Wallace  was  standing  by  the 
bed  watching  the  labored  breathing  of  the  prostrate 
man.  Old  Hannah  sat  on  the  floor  at  Richard's  feet. 
She  was  rocking  to  and  fro,  making  no  sign,  croon 
ing  inaudibly  to  herself,  listening  to  every  sound. 

Margaret  sank  to  her  knees  and  laid  her  cheek 
on  the  coverlet.  She  wanted  to  touch  something 
that  was  close  to  him. 

The  head  of  the  sick  man  turned  uneasily.  The 
doctor  bent  noiselessly  down,  put  his  ears  close  to 
the  patient's  breast,  touched  his  pulse  with  his 
fingers,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  forehead. 

"  Better  send  for  some  hot  water/'  he  whispered 
541 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORX 

to  Mrs.  Horn  when  he  had  regained  her  side.  Mar 
garet  overheard,  and  started  to  rise  from  her  knees, 
but  Mrs.  Horn  waved  her  back.  "  Hannah  will  get 
it,"  she  said,  and  stooped  close  to  the  old  woman 
to  give  the  order.  There  was  a  restrained  calmness 
in  her  manner  that  sent  a  shiver  through  Margaret. 
She  remembered  just  such  an  expression  on  her 
mothers  face  when  her  own  fath«?r  lay  dying. 

The  old  servant  lifted  herself  slowly,  and  with 
bent  head  and  crouching  body  crept  out  of  the  room 
without  turning  her  face  toward  her  master.  The 
superstition  of  the  negroes  about  the  eyes  of  a  dying 
man  kept  hers  close  to  the  floor — she  did  not  want 
Richard  to  look  at  her. 

Dr.  Wallace  detected  the  movement — he  knew 
its  cause — and  passed  out  of  the  eick  chamber  to 
where  Oliver  stood  with  Miss  Clendenning. 

"  Better  go  down,  Oliver,  and  see  that  the  hot 
water  is  sent  up  right  away/'  he  said.  "  Poor  old 
Hannah  seems  to  have  lost  her  head." 

''Has  there  been  any  further  change,  Doctor f'' 
Oliver  asked,  as  he  started  for  the  stairs. 

"  Xo,  not  since  you  went.  He  is  holding  his  own. 
His  hands  feel  cold,  that  is  all."  To  Miss  Lavinia 
he  said:  "  It  is  only  a  question  of  hours,"  and  went 
back  into  the  room. 

Oliver  hurried  after  Hannah.  He  intended  to 
send  Malachi  up  with  the  hot  water  and  then  per 
suade  the  old  woman  to  go  to  bed.  When  he  reached 

^ 


SMOULDERING    COALS 

*he  lower  hall  it  was  empty;  so  were  the  parlors  and 
the  dining-room.  At  the  kitchen-door  he  met  Han 
nah.  She  had  filled  the  pitcher  and  had  turned  to 

carry  it  upstairs.    Oliver  stopped  her. 

"  AVnere  is  Malachi.  aunty  J" 

Hannah  pointed  through  the  open  door  to  Rich 
ard's  little  shop  in  the  back  yard  and  hurried  on. 
Oliver  walked  quickly  through  the  damp,  brick- 
paved  yard,  now  filled  with  the  sombre  shadows  of 
the  night,  and  pushed  open  the  green  door.  The 
pl*ce  was  dark  except  for  a  slant  of  moonlight  which 
had  struggled  through  the  window-pane  and  was 
llumining  the  motor  where  it  rested  in  its  customary 
place  under  the  sash. 

"  ATalachi,  are  you  here  \  " 

A  sob  was  the  onlv  answer. 

• 

Oliver  stepped  inside.     The  old  man  was  on  his 

knees,  his  head  and  arms  lying  flat  on  Richard's 
work-bench.  Oliver  bent  down  and  laid  his  hand  OD 
the  old  servant's  head. 

"  Mally!  v 

'•  I  hear  ye.  Marse  Ollie,  an*  I  hearn  Hannah,  I 
tell  you  same  as  I  toF  her — ain't  no  use  fetchin'  no 
water:  ain't  no  use  no  mo*  for  no  doctor,  ain't  no 
use,  ain't  no  use.  I  ain't  never  goin'  to  say  no  mo* 
to  him,  *  Chairs  all  ready,  Marse  Richard.'  I  ain't 
never  goin'  to  wait  on  him  no  mo'.  Come  close  to 
me,  Marse  Ollie:  get  down  an'  let  me  tell  ye,  son." 

He  had  lifted  his  head  now,  and  was  looking  up 

513 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

into  Oliver's  eyes,  the  tears  streaming  down  his 
face. 

"  He  freed  me ;  he  gimme  a  home.  He  ain't 
neber  done  nothin'  but  love  me  an'  take  care  o'  me. 
When  I  bin  sick  he  come  in  an'  he  set  by  me.  '  You 
got  a  fever,  I  think,  Malachi,'  he  say.  l  Go  to  bed 
dis  minute.  Cold,  is  you?  Git  dat  blanket  out'n  my 
room  an'  put  it  on  yo'  bed.  Don't  let  me  hab  to  tell 
ye  dat  agin,  Malachi/  '  Marse  Richard/  I'd  say  to 
him,  ( I  ain't  got  no  coat  fit  to  wear.'  Dat  was  in 
•de  ol'  days,  when  you  warn't  nuffin  but  a  chile,  Marse 
Ollie.  '  Who  says  so,  Malachi/  he  say.  '  I  say  so, 
Marse  Richard/  '  Lemme  see/  he'd  say.  '  Dat's  so, 
dat  ain't  fit  fer  nobody  to  wear.  Go  upstairs  to  my 
•closet,  Malachi,  an'  git  dat  coat  I  was  a-wearin'  yis- 
terday.  I  reckon  I  kin  git  on  widout  it." 

Malachi  had  his  head  in  his  hands  now,  his  body 
swaying  from  side  to  side.  Oliver  stood  silent. 

"  When  he  come  home  de  udder  day  an'  I  lif '  him 
in  de  bed,  he  say,  (  Don't  you  strain  yo'se'f,  Malachi. 
'Member,  you  ain't  spry  as  you  was.'  Oh,  Gawd! 
Oh,  Gawd!  What's  Malachi  gwine  to  do?" 

Oliver  sat  down  beside  him.  There  was  nothing 
to  say.  The  old  servant's  grief  was  only  his  own. 

"  Ebery  night,  Marse  Ollie,  sence  he  bin  sick,  I 
git  so  lonesome  dat  I  wait  till  de  house  git  still  an* 
den  I  git  out'n  de  bed  and  crope  down-stairs  an'  lis 
ten  at  de  bedroom  door.  Den  I  hear  de  mistis  say: 

'  In  pain,  dear? '  and  he  say,  '  No,  Sallie.'    An'  den 

544 


SMOULDERING    COALS 

I  crope  up  agin  an'  go  to  bed  kind  o'  comforted.  I 
was  down  agin  las'  night — mos'  mawnin.' — a-lis- 
tenin',  an'  de  mistis  sa j :  '  Kin  I  do  sumpin'  to 
ease  de  pain,  dear? '  an'  he  don't  answer,  only  groan, 
and  den  I  hear  de  bed  creak,  an'  dat  short  bref  come. 
Dat's  the  sign !  I  knows  it.  In  de  mawnin'  he'll  be 
gone.  Can't  fool  Malachi;  I  knows  de  signs." 

A  gentle  tap  at  the  front  door  on  the  street 
sounded  through  the  stillness.  Oliver  had  left  all 
the  intervening  doors  between  the  dining-room  and 
4he  shop  open  in  his  search  for  Malachi. 

The  old  servant,  with  the  lifelong  habit  upon  him, 
started  up  to  answer  the  summons. 

"  ^To,  Mally,  stay  here,"  said  Oliver.  "  I'll  go. 
Some  neighbor,  perhaps,  wanting  to  know  how 
father  is." 

Oliver  walked  rapidly  through  the  yard,  tiptoed 
through  the  hall,  and  carefully  turned  the  knob. 

Amos  Cobb  stepped  in. 

"  I  saw  the  light,  Oliver,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone, 
"  and  I  knew  you  were  up.  I  have  an  important 
telegram  from  Xew  York  in  answer  to  one  I  sent 
this  morning  from  my  office  here.  "Would  it  be  pos 
sible  for  me  to  see  your  father?  I  know  it  is  very 
late,  but  the  matter  is  most  urgent." 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  Mr.  Cobb.    He  is  very  low." 

"  JSTot  serious?"  Amos  exclaimed,  in  alarm. 

"  Doctor  Wallace  thinks  it  is." 

"  You  don't  tell  me  so !    I  had  no  idea  he  was  so 

ill!" 

545 


THE  FOETUSES  OF  OLIVER  HOEft 

"  ~Nor  did  we,  sir;  a  change  for  the  worse  set  hj 
this  evening." 

Amos  leaned  back  against  the  wall,  his  hat  in  his 
hand.  The  light  from  the  eight-sided  hall  lamp  fell 
on  his  thick-set  shoulders  and  square,  determined, 
honest  face.  The  keen-eyed,  blunt  Vermonter's 
distress  at  the  news  was  sincere  and  heartfelt. 

"  Could  I  attend  to  it,  Mr.  Cobb?"  asked  Oliver. 

"  Perhaps  so.  I've  got  those  fellows  now  where 
the  hair  is  short,  and  I'm  going  to  make  'em  pay 
for  it." 

"What  is  it  about?" 

Amos  Cobb  took  a  double  telegram  from  hw 
pocket.  It  was  closely  written  and  contained  a  long 
message. 

"  It's  about  your  father's  patents.  This  telegram 
is  from  the  attorneys  of  the  Gorton " 

Oliver  laid  his  fingers  on  the  open  telegram  in 
Cobb's  hand,  and  said,  in  a  positive  tone: 

"  He  will  not  rob  this  man  of  his  rights,  Mr. 
Cobb." 

"It's  not  that!  It  is  the  other  way.  The  attor 
neys  of  the  Gorton  Company  refuse  to  rob  your 
'lather  of  his  rights.  Further,  the  bankers  will  not 
endorse  the  Gorton  stock  until  your  father's  patent 
— I  think  it  is  Xo.  18,131  " — and  he  examined  the 
telegram  closely—"  yes,  August  13,  1856,  18,131- 
is  out  of  the  way.  They  are  prepared  to  pay  a  large 
price  for  it  at  once,  and  have  asked  me  to  see  your 

546 


SMOULDERING    COALS 

father  and  arrange  it  on  the  best  terms  I  c«n.     The, 
offer  is  most  liberal.     I  don't  feel  like  risking  an 
hour's  delay;    that's  why  I'm  here  so  late.     What 
had  I  better  do?" 

Oliver  caught  ]\lr.  Cobb's  hand  in  his  and  a  flash 
of  exultant  joy  passed  over  his  face  as  he  thought  of 
his  father's  triumph  and  all  it  meant  to  him.  Then 
Margaret's  eyes  looked  into  his  and  next  his  moth 
er's;  he  knew  what  it  meant  to  them  all.  Then  the 
wasted  figure  of  his  father  rose  in  his  mind,  and  his 
tears  blinded  him. 

Amos  stood  watching  him,  trying  to  read  his 
thoughts.  He  saw  the  tears  glistening  on  Oliver's 
lashes,  but  he  misunderstood  the  cause.  Only  the 
practical  side  of  the  situation  appealed  to  the  Yer- 
monter  at  the  moment.  These  Xew  York  men  had 
cast  discredit  on  his  endorsement  of  Richard's  prior 
ity  in  the  invention  and  had  tried  to  ignore  them 
both.  !N"ow  he  held  them  tight  in  his  grasp.  Horn 
was  a  rich  man. 

"  I'll  be  very  quiet,  Oliver,"  he  continued,  in  a 
half -pleading  tone,  "  and  will  make  it  as  short  as  I 
can.  Just  let  me  go  up.  It  can't  hurt  him  " — and 
he  laid  his  hand  on  Oliver's  shoulder  with  a  tender 
ness  that  surprised  him.  "  I  would  never  forgive 
myself  if  he  should  pass  away  without  learning  of 
his  success.  He's  worked  so  hard." 

Before  Oliver  could  reply  another  low  tap  was 
heard  at  the  door.  Cobb  turned  lihe  knob  gently 

547 


THE  FOETUSES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

,  ind  ]STathan  stepped  inside  tlie  hall.  The  old  man 
had  gone  home  and  to  bed,  tired  out  with  his  cease 
less  watching  by  Richard's  bedside,  and  was  only 
half  dressed. 

"  Still  with  us?  "  he  asked  in  trembling  tones,  his 
eyes  searching  Oliver's  face.  "  Oh,  thank  God ! 
Thank  God !  I'll  go  up  at  once  " — and  he  passed  on 
toward  the  stairway.  Amos  and  Oliver  followed. 

As  Nathan's  foot  touched  the  first  step  Doctor 
Wallace's  voice  sounded  over  the  bannisters. 

"Oliver!    Malachi!     Both  of  you — quick!" 

The  three  bounded  noiselessly  up-stairs  and  en 
tered  the  room.  Richard  lay  high  up  on  the  pillows, 
the  face  in  shadow,  his  eyes  closed.  Margaret  was 
still  on  her  knees,  her  head  on  the  coverlet.  Mrs. 
Horn  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  the  same 
calm,  fixed  expression  on  her  face,  as  if  she  was 
trying  to  read  the  unknowable.  Dr.  Wallace  sat 
on  a  chair  beside  his  patient,  his  fingers  on  Richard's 
pulse. 

"Is  he  gone?"  asked  Oliver,  stepping  quickly  to 
his  father's  side,  his  voice  choking. 

Dr.  Wallace  shook  his  head. 

Amos  Cobb  drew  near,  and  whispered  in  the  doc 
tor's  ear.  The  old  physician  listened  quietly,  and 
nodded  in  assent.  Then  he  leaned  over  his  patient. 

"  Mr.  Cobb  has  some  good  news  for  you,  Rich 
ard,"  he  said,  calmly.  "  The  bankers  have  recog 
nized  your  patents,  and  are  ready  to  pay  the 
money " 


SMOULDERING    COALS 

The  dying  man's  eyes  opened  slowly. 

Amos  stepped  in  front  of  the  doctor,  and  bent 
down  close  to  the  bed. 

"  It's  all  right,  Horn — all  right!  They  can't  get 
along  without  your  first  patent.  Here's  the  tele 
gram."  He  spoke  with  an  encouraging  cheeriness 
in  his  voice,  as  one  would  in  helping  a  child  across 
a  dangerous  place. 

The  brow  of  the  dying  man  suddenly  cleared; 
ihe  eyes  burned  with  their  old  steadiness,  then  the 
lips  parted. 

*  Read  it,"  he  muttered.  The  words  were  barely 
audible. 

Cobb  held  the  paper  so  the  dim  light  should  fall 
upon  it  and  read  the  contents  slowly,  emphasizing 
each  word. 

"  Raise  me  up." 

The  voice  seemed  to  come  from  his  throat,  as  if 
his  lungs  were  closed.  Oliver  started  forward,  but 
Cobb,  being  nearer,  slipped  his  arm  under  the  wasted 
figure,  and  with  the  tenderness  of  a  woman,  lifted 
him  carefully,  tucking  the  pillows  in  behind  the  thin 
shoulders  for  better  support.  Oliver  sank  softly  to 
his  knees  beside  Margaret. 

Again  the  thin  lips  parted. 

"  Read  it  once  more."  The  voice  came  stronger 
now. 

Amos  held  the  paper  to  the  light,  and  the  words 
of  the  telegram,  like  the  low  tick  of  a  clock,  again 

sounded  through  the  hushed  room. 

549 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  OLIVER  HORN 

leading  into  the  bedroom  beyond,  as  if  expecting 
someone. 

Oliver  stands  before  his  easel,  his  palette  and 
brushes  in  his  hand.  He  is  studying  the  effect  of  a 
pat  of  color  he  has  just  laid  on  the  portrait  of  a 
young  girl  in  a  rich  gown — the  fourth  full-length 
he  has  painted  this  year — the  most  important  being 
the  one  of  his  father  ordered  by  the  Historical  So 
ciety  of  Kennedy  Square,  and  painted  from  Mar 
garet's  sketches. 

Malachi — the  old  man  is  very  feeble — moves 
slowly  around  a  square  table  covered  with  a  snow- 
white  cloth,  with  seats  set  for  four — one  a  high  chair 
with  little  arms.  In  his  hands  are  a  heap  of  cups 
and  saucers — the  same  Spode  cups  and  saucers  he 
looked  after  so  carefully  in  the  old  house  at  home. 
These  he  places  near  the  smoking  coffee-urn. 

Suddenly  a  merry,  roguish  laugh  is  heard,  and  a 
little  fellow  with  gold-brown  hair  and  big  blue  eyes 
peers  in  through  the  slowly  opening  door. 

The  old  servant  stops,  and  his  withered  face 
breaks  into  a  smile. 

"Is  dat  you,  honey?"  he  cries,  with  a  laugh. 
"Come  along,  son.  Yo'  chaYs  all  ready,  Marse 
Richard." 

THE   END 


Date  Due 


PRINTED  IN   U.S./ 


CAT.   NO.   24    161 


